


The Scrapbook

by Omnibard



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Answering Requests, Aswering Questions, F/M, Ficlets, M/M, Multi, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Other, Random - Freeform, Tumblr Prompt, headcanons, shipping everyone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-04-22 19:46:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 32,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14315862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omnibard/pseuds/Omnibard
Summary: This is the collection of stuff I've written for the fandom (mostly on Tumblr or Discord) that doesn't belong in (but might be related to) any of my main fics.  Be prepared for:- headcanon drabbles- random ficlets- Answers to Asks-That-Don't-Go-In-The-Main-Fics-For-Reasons- Reprints fromMeteorPublishing





	1. S/O Nightmare Headcanons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mandakatt asked:  
> Hiya Doll! ♥ *wiggles into your inbox* Right - So since you and I are currently lost in FFXV Hell.... How do you think the Chocobros + Cor would react to their S/O crying after a nightmare - their S/O Tried so hard to not wake them but, oops? Thank youuuu!
> 
>  
> 
> _Thanks for the ask! For the scenario, I’m going to assume that this is not the first time this has happened… (Also our gender-neutral S/O is named “Nonnie” because I find that less jarring than ‘Y/N’. You/your OC/ship can be Nonnie!)_

**Noctis** :  The Prince sleeps pretty heavily, so Nonnie might succeed in a dozen or so seconds of secret crying, but _something_ is bound to give them away.

“What’s… Hey are you… okay?” He’s not really awake yet, but he’s struggling to get there, because why is Nonnie crying?  Did something—

Oh.  Oh _right_. “Are you okay?” He asks it again, more clearly, moving to sit up and pull them into his arms.

Nonnie apologizes for waking him, really didn’t want to…

“It’s fine.  You want the light?” Because sometimes that made it easier to get a good grasp on everything.

“No.  I’m okay.”

“Okay.” But Noctis doesn’t settle back down.  He leans back against the headboard with Nonnie against his shoulder or chest, brushing idle circles on their wrist with his thumb.  Eventually, they’ll both drift back into sleep.  Noct’s back won’t thank him in the morning, but he’ll say nothing about it around Nonnie.

  

**Ignis** :  Depending on how frequently these terrible dreams happen to Nonnie, Ignis might already be trying to narrow down the source of them: Diet?  Not enough exercise?  Stress?  Illness?  Media intake?  It’d be helpful to know to try and curb them, or at least predict them—management is preferable to reaction, after all.  Still, when Nonnie has a nightmare and awakens suddenly, crying, Ignis is awake almost instantly, reaching for the light (and then his glasses) with one hand and Nonnie with the other to rub along their back and neck and pull them into an embrace.   “You’re all right.” He assures them gently.

Once the initial panic has calmed, it’s to the kitchen to get Nonnie a cup of chamomile tea, or something equally relaxing and decaffeinated to hopefully soothe them back to restful sleep.

**Gladio** :  Gladio isn’t the lightest sleeper, but movement around him will get his attention—and it’s really hard to get distance in a bed considering his size (and penchant for snuggling).  So at the first jolt, he’s already mumbling something that’s supposed to be ‘What’s the matter?’ but isn’t real words yet.  Meanwhile Nonnie is already trying to assure him that they’re fine, really, he can go back to sleep, trying to hold back sobs.  Gladio knows this song and dance though, and that’ll wake him up the rest of the way enough to pull Nonnie more fully against him. “Hey. I’m here.  It’s alright.  You don’t have to be scared.  You don’t have to be sorry, either.”

If Nonnie is too keyed up to go back to sleep in a few minutes, Gladio will usher the both of them out of bed to either get a warm beverage from the kitchen, or to just ‘reset’ with a walk around the abode.  He’ll ask about the nightmare—unless Nonnie has made it clear that talking about it only makes it worse.  If Nonnie talks about it, he will gently, steadily, very kindly turn it into something funny and less terrible or scary.  He gets better at it each time.

**Prompto** :  Prompto has sleeping problems himself—nightmares, insomnia, broken sleep.  Chances are very good that if Nonnie has a nightmare, Prompto is already awake, or will be at the first whimper or stirring.  The cellphone or camera screen light is already on, and if Nonnie’s nightmare shows visible tells while they sleep, he might try to gently wake them, shaking their shoulder or squeezing their hand.  (He really wants to tuck their hair behind their ear or caress the side of their face, but he’s pretty sure that’ll freak Nonnie out more than help) “Hey, it’s just a bad dream.  Nonnie?”

When Nonnie wakes up, there’s the apologetic Prompto-puppy smile in the light of the cellphone or camera. “Hey.  Sorry. You were having a nightmare.”

That’s all that really needs to be said.  These two get it—sometimes it’s Nonnie waking up Prompto from _his_ nightmares.  Now it’s just time for snuggles and flipping through photos (or Instagram/tumblr/facebook) until more peaceful sleep comes around.

**Cor** :  There are very very few things that escape Cor’s notice, even while sleeping.  He is an extraordinarily, arguably-paranoidly light sleeper.  Chances are he’s grown accustomed to any normal tossing and turning Nonnie does throughout the night, but anything more than that and he’s already paying attention.  Even before they jolt and gasp, there’s a strong, securing hand on their shoulder. “Hey. Nonnie.”

This has happened a few times, so Cor knows whether Nonnie wants physical comfort or to bring themselves down first, but he always waits for the tell—for the look, or the touch to his hand, or for Nonnie to scoot closer to him.  Then he pulls them close and reclines on his back.  He doesn’t have much to say, but he’ll offer to listen if they want to talk about it.  He can’t fall back asleep until Nonnie does anyway.


	2. ((MP Reprint)) Prompt: “Your hugs are warm, we should do this more often.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Your hugs are warm, we should do this more often.”  
> Characters: Prompto & Dino
> 
> (Reprinted from [MeteorPublishing](https://meteorpublishing.tumblr.com/tagged/MTRaki))

Sometimes Prompto took his camera and went to be by himself.  He wasn’t upset, certainly not with his friends, but something tripped up inside and he’d chase himself off—usually in the early mornings—to try and think about things.  To get a new perspective.  To see the different angle.

Galdin Quay was a good spot for it.  Ignis gave him a glance over his morning coffee and cellphone emails, but said nothing.  Prompto figured Ignis knew a lot about this sort of thing.  Ignis probably _understood_.  Maybe one day they’d talk about it.  The boardwalk creaked under his boots, the waves lapped with rushing whispers over the sand, and there was just the faintest mist lingering over the beach.  He wanted a shot of that—maybe he could frame it right and get the rocky outcropping and a bit of Angelgard in it?  He’d need a wide angle if he wanted the water too—which he did.

Thinking about the details of this stuff helped work out other things in his head.  Like, if he could take this shot _just right_ , it meant he could maybe untangle _this bit_ in his head too.  Eventually it’d all be settled and everything in the right place, flush and neat, and then he’d be…

Content in his own skin?

Happy with who he was in his own head?

He didn’t really know.  But it wasn’t what he was focused on right now.  Right now he needed a wide-angle shot of this mist, the beach, Angelgard, and the water before the heat of the day burned up the mist.

An arm looped companionably over his shoulders and he lowered his camera quickly to turn and look.

“Heya there.” And then the reporter wrapped him in a big hug with both arms, holding him tight, but not crushing.  Dino held him there a minute or so, and Prompto was just too stunned to even protest.

Until he was released, “W…?”

“Ya just looked like ya needed one, y’know?  Standin’ out here all by your lonesome.”

Prompto blinked at him, and just sort of grinned self-consciously, “Well uh thanks.  I mean… That was actually pretty great.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah!” Rubbing the back of his neck, the golden-blonde chuckled, “I’m pretty sure you just cured my status ailment.”

“Your what now?”

“Nevermind.  That was actually… Do you always give hugs like that?”

Dino’s eyebrow kept arching, a smirk trying desperately hard to hide how confused he was, “Not really.”

“You really should.  Your hugs are like… like magic.  Seriously, they’re so warm.  You should do it more often.”

“Listen, pal, I’ve already got two careers, but I’ll keep it in mind if any of my other gigs fall through.” Rolling his eyes, the reporter-aspiring-jeweler shook his head, but Prompto could tell he was flattered.


	3. ((MP Reprint)) Prompt: "Is that a challenge?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Is that a challenge?"  
> Characters: Gladio, Ignis & Noctis
> 
> (Reprinted from [MeteorPublishing](https://meteorpublishing.tumblr.com/tagged/MTRaki))

“Is that a challenge, four-eyes?” Gladiolus rumbled dangerously, the sound emanating from somewhere deep in his chest.

“I believe I made myself clear enough…” Ignis returned, his tone _just_ condescendingly frigid enough to leave no question his opinion on the matter, “… or have I overestimated your powers of comprehension?”

“That’s it!  Let’s go!” The big, tanned hand slammed on the patio table, shaking the umbrella impaling it through the center.

“What in the _heck_ is going on out here?!” Noctis demanded poking his head out the door of the caravan, Prompto’s head poking out just over his.

“Stay out of this, Noctis.  This is between him and me!” The Shield growled

Ignis snorted, “You might regret that.  I assure you, you’ll need all the assistance you can beg.”

They were fighting words, in dangerous tones, but both were focused on their phones, thumbs swiftly flying over screens.

Looking at each other, the two younger friends carefully crept over to peer over their shoulders.  But whatever it was, it was over too swiftly.  Gladio leapt to his feet, bellowing.

“Take that!  Not so superior now, are we?”

“Ridiculous!  This is the poorest simulator I’ve ever seen!  If this were _anything_ like reality—“

“Sounds like sour grapes, Iggy.  Pay up.”

“King’s Knight?” Noctis asked.

Ignis was already walking away in disgust, heading for the diner.

“Cooking Mama,” Gladio said smugly.

“Really.” Noctis’s eyebrow quirked.

“Hey.  He might be a genius in a real kitchen, but _nobody_ makes Mama proud like Gladdy.”


	4. ((MP Reprint)) Prompt: "I’m your friend, of course I care!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I’m your friend, of course I care!"  
> Characters: Noctis & Talcott
> 
> (Reprinted from [MeteorPublishing](https://meteorpublishing.tumblr.com/tagged/MTRaki))

It was rare that Noctis couldn’t sleep.  Still, there he lay, staring at the dark of the ceiling, his head and veins buzzing with restlessness while listening to the deep even breathing of the four other people in the room, and the entire house seemed quiet and almost eerily still.  Everybody must have been sleeping.

So he got up.  It was by chance as he passed the window that he saw the small silhouette out by the cliff edge.  It didn’t move, and Noctis slowly decided it was a _person_ , and the only _person_ he knew of around here that small was Talcott.  But why was Talcott outside alone at this time of night?

He thought he might know the answer.  It was probably the same thing that had driven him all the way _here_ from Lestallum.

Quiet as he could manage, the Prince left the room and crept downstairs.  A small lantern was on on the dining room table, and by its warm light the Marshal kept watch.  Their eyes met momentarily as Noctis crossed the room, but the Marshal didn’t say anything or move from where he sat, leaned back on the dining room chair, arms folded over his chest, so Noctis didn’t explain himself.  He wanted to ask, a little, whether there was really a need for a night watch, and decided he probably didn’t want to know the answer.  He didn’t really want to hear more bad news right now.

He was going to Altissia soon—leaving tomorrow or the day after—and he’d finally see Luna and everything would… It would all work out.  Somehow.

It was equally quiet outside when the Prince stepped out and started across the porch and down the walk—Cor stirred behind him, rising out of his chair with a crack of tendons and muscles, probably to follow him to the door and see what he was up to—and no demons threatened.  Still, Noctis kept to the lights as much as possible and made his way to the cliffs where he’d last seen the small silhouette.

Talcott was still there, perched on a boulder, looking out over the dark sea.

“Hey, Talcott…” The Prince said quietly, climbing up beside him, “… What’s up?”

“Oh Prince Noctis!  What are you doing awake?  Can’t sleep?”

“Guess not.  You either?”

“Oh, no, I come out here a lot like this,” The boy gestured to the stars gleaming over the dark waves, “You can see the stars really well out here.  It’s way better than Insomnia or Lestallum.  Y’know, at least for _that_.”

Chuckling, Noctis shook his head ruefully, ruffling his hair, “So you’re into stars too?”

“Yeah!  Did you know that most of our constellations were named by sailors back during _Solheim_?  They used them for navigation and way-finding!  Like… Look!” And Talcott pointed to a string of stars in almost a perfect line, “That’s ‘Sol’s Spear’.  The tip always points West no matter what time it is or where it is in the sky!  If you can find ‘Sol’s Spear’, you always know which way West is.  And there!”

Next he drew out the rough shape of an lop-sided arrow that Noctis couldn’t really see, “That’s the ‘Anchor of Clarus the Stalwart’.”

“’Clarus the Stalwart’?  You don’t mean Clarus Amicitia, do you?”

“No, but I always wanted to ask, you know?  If Lord Amicitia was named after a legendary sea captain?  That’d be interesting, wouldn’t it?”

“I guess.”

“… The Marshal’s constellation isn’t out now.  It was probably out earlier.”

“Cor has a constellation too?”

“Well it’s a _fish_ with one eye, so it’s not really as cool of a story…”

“Cor has a constellation of a _fish_ with only one eye?” Noctis suddenly got the feeling he was being pranked on, that Cor had followed him all the way from the dining room table instead of just to the door.

“Well… it’s called ‘Pisce Cor’… I don’t know if that has anything to do with _our_ Cor.  That’s just how I remembered it.” Shrugging, the boy pointed deep toward the horizon, where the darker line of the sea met the stars, “There’s the bear I was named after.  Its butt and back leg anyway.”

“You were named after a bear constellation, huh?”  But then Talcott grew quiet and he turned his face away while a line of tension rooted him from shoulder to heel.

“That’s what grandpa told me, anyway.”

Noctis wondered whether it had been Jared who had taught him all about ancient sea captains and one-eyed fish that made up the map of the stars, if it had been Jared who had taught him how to navigate by way of the night sky.

“… I’m sorry.  This is all probably pretty boring to you, Prince Noctis.  You probably have a lot of other things to worry about.  Sorry for just saying… all that stuff.”

“What are you talking about, Talcott?”

“This stuff?  I mean… it’s not important.  Nobody cares about it, right?  You don’t—“

“—Talcott, I’m your friend, of course I care!” And the Prince realized he _did_ care, but not _only_ because his friend Talcott did.  That was the foundation of it, of course: things that were important to Talcott were, to a degree, important to Noctis by way of their friendship.  But more than that, this was the wisdom passed from father-figure to son, and more than before, such wisdom was precious to him.

Neither of their father-figures were around to tell them the things they might need to know any longer.

A tense silence stretched as Talcott gaped at him, and Noctis realized his voice had been probably too loud and too sharp with feeling.  Fumbling, he turned toward the sea and gestured, “… So what’s that one?”

“… That?” Squinting, the boy tilted his head to the right, “Oh.  That’s the bottom half of the King Serpent.  See its tail there?  It’s wrapped around the leg of the Running Bird—apparently that’s where Cockatrices come from.”

***

Looking up, Noctis saw it was Talcott driving the truck.  Talcott, all grown up.  Talcott hardened by ten years of darkness and death.  Climbing in the passenger side, he learned it was the same Talcott, carrying interesting tidbits and the most important pieces of news he needed to hear.  But then there was a stretch of silence, and Noctis watched the young man’s face and saw where the glow of relief and newfound hope did not immediately hide the lines of misery and struggle.

The world had darkened and grown sharper in his absence, quicker to bruise and break where people were weakest.

Sighing, he leaned his head against the window.  There’d been no rest in the Crystal, not for ten years, but now was the time for action.  His eyes searched the Scourge-swollen sky, unnatural clouds unbroken, but…

… he thought he saw part of a line of pinpoints where it swirled thin…

“West.” He said, pointing out his window.

“Huh?  Y-your Majesty?”

“’Sol’s Spear’ always points West, right?” Noctis pointed out his window again, “So that way’s West.”

Talcott grinned at him, clearly surprised he remembered, and then turned his eyes back to the road. “… That’s right.”

After they parked, Noctis clapped his friend on the shoulder and pointed to where he’d seen the shadow of stars before heading toward those waiting for him.


	5. ((MP Reprint)) (NSFW) Prompt: "You are driving me crazy!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "You are driving me crazy!"  
> Characters: Cor Leonis x Nonnie [Writer uses Nonnie in place of Y/N for reader]  
> Warnings: Mild NSFW - Straight Razor shaving
> 
> (Reprinted from [MeteorPublishing](https://meteorpublishing.tumblr.com/tagged/MTRaki))

“Cor Leonis.”

They laughed a bit, and accepted the handshake, doing their best to not be intimidated by the firm strength in it.  This man could break them in half if he really wanted, “Nonnie.  Everyone knows who you are, Marshal.”

“I suppose so.  Be gentle with me, Nonnie.  It’s… been a long time.”

“I can tell,” They grinned, gesturing to the chair, “Don’t worry, I’m the very best in town.  I’ll take very good care of you.”

Cor sat, looked around, looked at Nonnie, then said, “Should I take off—“

“No.  I can work around everything.  Relax.”

Going behind him, Nonnie let their hands fall lightly to the Marshal’s broad shoulders and looked carefully at what they had to work with, glancing at the man’s reflection in the cracked glass of the mirror, running an experimental hand through his hair at the nape of his neck.  The Marshal tensed, furrowed his brows, and tried to relax again, as if reminding himself he’d come here of his own free will and for good reason.

“Short and simple?”

“No time for anything complicated these days.” He observed ruefully.

“I know what you mean.” Nonnie chuckled.  They could do ‘short and simple’.  No trouble at all, really.

But… “What about the beard?”

“What about it?” The man scowled.

“It could use some cleaning up.”  When he continued to scowl, Nonnie added, “I can tell you’re very strict about it, but give me some credit: I can do better here in my shop than you can with a belt-knife in a camp, okay?”

“Alright, fine.”

“Just relax.  I’m a professional.”

“This is as relaxed as it gets, Nonnie.”

They got a clean towel and spread it over his shoulders, folding it carefully over the stiff collar of his jacket before covering him with the cape.  “You want a wash?”

He thought about it for several moments, “…Think I need it?”

“I have shampoo, Marshal.  _Real_ shampoo.”

“Tempting,” The corner of his mouth twitched in the mirror, “But I know some young ladies who might want it more.”

“Suit yourself.” Nonnie grabbed the spritzer bottle and proceeded to wet Cor’s short, dark hair, careful to keep the spray out of his face.  It was swiftly done, and then the comb and their best shears came out, “I’ll let you see how you like me with scissors, first.  Then you can tell me whether you trust me with a straight razor.”

Cor said nothing, but something that might have been the ghost of bemusement danced across his pale eyes.

They began at the sides, near his temple, cutting over the comb in small sections, moving swiftly.  It was a simple cut—just like he wanted—and the Marshal’s time was valuable.  The man himself sat straight-backed and stock still, and Nonnie could not imagine he was the least bit comfortable.

“You’re confused about something,” They observed, thinking aloud.

“I remember clippers last time I got this done.”

“Clippers can do it faster, yeah, but I like the control I have with scissors.  I can make it softer, play with texture.  It feels more like art to me than with clippers.  Call it personal preference,” Then Nonnie grinned, “Besides, they take electricity, and that’s a commodity these days.”

“That’s true.”

“You’ll like the finished product.  I promise.”  Once more, the Marshal made no reply, simply seemed to quietly watch them in the mirror.

Nonnie attempted to broach several other topics of conversation, but they were short-lived, and Cor never relaxed any further (it seemed this was indeed as ‘relaxed as it got’ with him) and so they slowly fell silent, occasionally humming along to the radio crackling in the corner.  Soon enough, Nonnie’s fingers were fluffing through the now shorter, more cleanly-shaped hair, moving up from his nape to the crown of his head.

“Much better, I’d say, sir.  You were looking a bit ragged there.”

“Been awhile, like I said.” He no longer tensed under their touch, they noted, “Looks good.”

“Ready for me to take a go at that beard?” Nonnie grinned.

“Straight-razor, you said?”

“Mmhm.”

“… Soap or cream?”

“Either, but I’m not putting cream on _your_ face.”  Nonnie could tell that he wanted to ask about the preference, the _distinction_ , but he didn’t ask, so Nonnie didn’t explain.

“All right.”

They went to bloom the soap, “Sorry in advance.  As much as I’d like to get you a hot towel, I can’t ration it.”

“It’s fine.  I already feel like too much fuss is being made over me…”

“C’mon, Marshal,” Nonnie chuckled, “a handsome man needs some fuss made over him now and again.”

Cor made a sound in this throat like he wanted to protest, but didn’t have the right words.  Nonnie poured the water out of the soap puck and rubbed their hands together, “I pre-shave, just so you know.”

“… I’m going to pretend I know what that means.”

Chuckling, they went behind the seat with the man in it and began running their soapy hands along his jaw and neck, up both cheeks, in smooth strokes, “Shaving soap has lots of fats and oils in it.  It’s good for the hair and the skin.  Pre-shaving lets your face absorb some of that goodness before the shave and rinse.”

“You’re fussing again.” But he said it softly, something unfamiliar in his tone.

“Well then maybe we’ll just have to live with the fact that I treat your beard better than you do.”

“Hm.” He furrowed his brow as their fingers went through the established hair at his chin, “You’re not taking that off.”

“No.  What did I just say?  It’s good for the hair.  I’ll rinse it out after, don’t worry.”

The lather came next, thick and luxurious, and Nonnie was quietly proud that their good soap still worked the same and still smelled as nice.  It was good that some of the nice things in the world still worked.

“I don’t suppose you’ll let me recline you back…”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“The alternative is to move your head a dozen different times between periods of sitting very very still.”

He grunted, “I’ll manage.”

Nonnie collected their razors and checked their edges—sharpened fresh this morning and not used since—before getting to work on the Marshal’s face.  They noted the tension in his hands at the armrest, clenching and unclenching. “Everything all right?”

“Mm.”

Glancing down, they noticed the tension in his thighs as well.  Also between his legs.  Nonnie cleared their throat gently, “Straight razors, huh?”

“Hm?”

“Exciting, right?”

He was silent, his ears turning red.

Nonnie chuckled quietly, “It’s alright, Marshal.  I won’t tell anyone.  It’s not like you’re the first.  Won’t be the last either.”

Being a professional, it was easy to focus on the task at hand, but Nonnie knew that when the job was done, and when Cor left, they would be thinking about this.  About Cor Leonis getting excited in their chair, under their hands.  Cor Leonis blushing and throbbing hard in his pants over their skill.  They weren’t kidding when they’d told him he was handsome.

But all of this could be examined at leisure _after_.

They were almost done, and it was a bit bittersweet, because after they were done, and after he paid, he’d leave and probably wouldn’t return for three weeks or longer—if he returned at all.  Nonnie didn’t doubt his satisfaction at their service, but Cor had already mentioned that he thought services like this were… something too decadent for him.  Still, for the moment he was still in their care, and there was this very tricky patch under his ear, just behind the hook of his jaw, and whenever Nonnie worked just under the jaw line, they tended to lean a bit closer—it was a tricky section, prone to being thin and sensitive—sometimes even ticklish, and the shape of it could be difficult to navigate.

Especially if the customer moved, “Nonnie.”

“Shh.”

“No.  _Nonnie_.”

“What’s wrong?”

He grimaced, throat crimson, “… You’re driving me _crazy_ …” he grit out quietly, voice low and thick.  _Needy._

They didn’t know what possessed them to look, but Nonnie did look, down from where they leaned over him, down to where they hadn’t noticed that their knees were touching because they’d been intensely focused on his jawline.  Down to where his fingers clenched desperately into the armrests of the chair as if he intended to take them with him.  Down to where his erection looked painfully strained against the zipper of his fly.

“… Straight-razors, huh?” Nonnie swallowed hard, choking on a nervous chuckle.

“It’s not the fucking _blade_ it’s _you_!” He growled, meeting their eyes for just a moment, but long enough for his barely-concealed lust to crash right through them. “… And you breathing on my neck…”

Nonnie swallowed again, “… Sorry.  I’m… almost done.”

Somehow, they got through it.  Somehow their hands stayed steady and professional.  Somehow they kept their knees despite how their pulse seemed to come from their loins and just _stay_ there, hot and heavy, throbbing.  The world of darkness could be a lonely place.  It’d been awhile since anybody had walked through the door, much less someone like _Cor Leonis_ , and Nonnie liked to think they couldn’t really be blamed for this kind of reaction.  Because it sounded like _Cor Leonis_ might be just as lonely, and maybe a little bit _into_ them.

They rinsed his face, gently wiped it dry, and stepped away.

_…Stepped away…_

Truly, Nonnie had _meant_ to step away.

They were a professional.  Professionals didn’t linger by their customers after a shave.  Didn’t trace fingertips along their freshly shaved jawlines for no reason other than the pleasure of feeling their skin.  Nonnie was a professional, and therefore could not explain why their other hand dropped to Cor’s thigh, causing it to jump under their fingertips and his eyes to meet theirs.

They swallowed hard, “… You look good, Marshal.”

“Thanks.” He murmured, voice still low and thick while Nonnie’s fingers toyed with the hair at his chin with one hand, while the other glided all the way up his thigh.

“I’ve got good hands, right?  Best in town, like I said.”

“Yeah.”


	6. Prompto/Ignis "I wish this moment could last forever"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prowlingthunder asked:
> 
> Prompto/Ignis, 8.

“Are you awake?”

“Certainly moreso now.”

Prompto sat up, wincing at the creaking of the mattress before deciding to climb out of the bed altogether—where he winced at the creaking of the floor.

Noctis slept on regardless, could probably sleep through a behemoth moving around the room, which was part of the reason he shared a bed with the restless Prompto, and so the blond wasn’t too worried about him. It was the other bed and the couch occupants he might disturb.

Gladio had won the evening’s contest for the bed, and since Lestallum was _always_ sultry warm, even in the small hours of the morning, Ignis had settled for the couch instead of attempting to share.  The Shield of the King was a big man and put out a lot of body heat—welcome on cool rainy nights in a tent, less so now.  He continued to snore softly, worn out from the exertions of the day.

Ignis was sitting more upright, reaching for his glasses which had been placed on the coffee table next to his phone and unfolding them to slide them into their usual place, “Trouble sleeping?” was his whispered inquiry.

“Same old same,” Prompto murmured ruefully, ruffling his hair and gesturing to the slatted door leading out onto the balcony, “Gonna get some air.”

“With your camera?”

“Uh… yeah.  Look over some stuff.  Light shouldn’t bother anyone out there.”

Outside there was a very faint breeze that actually managed to be a few degrees cooler than the heavy heat lingering in the air and radiating off the concrete.  Prompto told himself it was for _that_ reason Ignis had come to join him after a few minutes of solitude.  He had to tell himself these things because otherwise his rebellious mind would invent crazy stories that’d tease him with the idea that _maybe Ignis liked him back_ , and then he’d get his hopes up.  Then he’d immediately feel _stupid_ and disappointed for jumping to crazy conclusions like a little kid.

The tall, lean figure made a striking silhouette—as always—and Prompto resisted his first instinct, which was to turn and take a photo.  Instead he remained leaned over the balcony railing, tapping through the digital photos he’d taken that day.  After a moment of watching the square below, Ignis came to stand beside him.

“May I join you?”

“Sure, I mean there’s plenty of balcony—“

“Pardon, I meant… reviewing your photos…”

“Oh.” The blond felt something in his chest—heart?  Lungs?—give a jolt before dropping down around his knees to knock around there, racing fast, kicking his stomach into knots on the way.

The silence lingered, too long and heavy with awkwardness.

“… I didn’t mean to—“

“—No, it’s… It’s cool. Yeah.  Sure.” Prompto shoved the camera into his gloved hands, glad it was dark enough that the sharp-eyed Advisor wouldn’t be able to see him blushing.

Ignis said nothing, but adopted the blond’s earlier posture—though somewhat more straight-backed and poised, forcing Prompto to resist the urge to dig out his _phone_ and take a photo—and considered the photo currently on the screen before giving a side-glance in the glow gleaming off his glasses.

Prompto could read the silent question in the arched brow, so he hesitantly moved to stand closer beside him, shoving his hands in his hip pockets to look through the photos _with_ Ignis like had been originally proposed. He was only slightly more comfortable looking over Ignis’s shoulder than he would have been with Ignis looking over _his_.  Ignis’s hands were steady, and Prompto’s would have been shaking with nerves and…

Worse than nerves.

This silence was somewhat more comfortable, too, than the previous one had been.  Ignis went through the photos swiftly, but Prompto could see his eyes move around the screen and recognized that particular pinching at the corner of his lips—it was the same one he wore when reading through his phone emails with mind-melting swiftness.  Ignis was taking in all the details, and he could do it remarkably quickly, which Prompto found simply incredible.  A lot of things about Ignis were _incredible_.

“This one.” And the camera was tilted more for his view.  It was the photo he’d taken the other day of a dualhorn tossing its head, pivoting to turn and charge at them.

Swallowing, Prompto managed to stammer, “Wh-what about it?”

“What is the significance of this shot?”

It wasn’t very well-framed—he’d been in a hurry taking it, after all, blood thundering with nervous energy like always before a fight—but Prompto didn’t think that was what Ignis was commenting on.  Not with the gleam of intent investigation in his eyes.  Prompto resisted the urge to shrivel up under that look.

“Uh… It’s kind of… dumb?”

“The significance of this shot is that… it ‘is kind of dumb’…?”

“No… I mean the significance—the _reason_ is kind of dumb… You sure you want to know?”

Ignis blinked, “It is why I asked.”

Sighing, Prompto looked out into the square, at the fountain, “… I was thinking ‘I wish this moment could last forever’.  So… I took the photo.  So it would.”

Ignis was staring at him, then said in a voice as empty of emotion as humanly possible, effectively conveying all his incredulity, “You wanted _this_ moment to last forever…”

“Yeah.”

“ _This_ moment.”

Prompto shifted uneasily, “ _Yeah_.  The moment before everything goes to hell?  The last bit of… I don’t know… calm before the fight? Like… if it lasted forever then we wouldn’t have to fight.  I _told you_ it was dumb!”

Ignis made a low, nasally sound, “You keep saying that as if expecting me to agree.  I assure you, I’m not going to.  It’s an interesting perspective.”

“Huh?”

Shrugging, the taller man clicked to the next photo again, and then the next, “You always have the most interesting perspective, Prompto.”

The blond knew people used ‘interesting’ to mean weird.  A lot of people did.  He did not think Ignis was one of them.  His hands darted forward, turning the camera around in the gloved hands and pressing the manual shutter, blinking in the flash.  Ignis was startled, but made no noise.

Until his eyes met Prompto’s again and he _laughed_.

Prompto almost took _another_ photo of him.

_I wish this moment could last forever…_


	7. ((MP Reprint)) (NSFW) Aranea x Gladio "You sure talk a big game… but can you live up to it?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Aranea x Gladio  
> Warnings: NSFW
> 
> (Reprinted from [MeteorPublishing](https://meteorpublishing.tumblr.com/tagged/MTRaki))

The Commodore was enjoying the well-earned luxuries of a hot bath in the big tubs offered by the Leville, and a glass of expensive tequila on the rocks to sip on while she soaked, when the man she’d left on the bed groaned throatily back into consciousness and started moving around.  Aranea remained where she was, completely indifferent about whatever he was going to do.  It wasn’t often she got to pamper herself like this, and she wasn’t about to let that oaf interrupt her.

He was muttering curses, and then she heard him freeze, could picture him turning slowly toward the bathroom door, and then his slow, heavy footsteps approached.  His tall, broad frame entered the doorway in her peripheral, as she was lounging with her back to the door due to the arrangement of the tub in the room.

“… What the hell is going on?” He mumbled.

Annoying, that he didn’t remember, it seemed. “I’m taking a bath.” She informed him, stretching out a leg to rest the heel of her foot on the tub rim.

“Okay but… What are… what am I doing here?  Is… this your room?” He came deeper in, heading for the mirror above the sink, “Why does my head hurt…?”

Aranea ignored him as he investigated his reflection, the puffy wound across his forehead, intersecting with the one down his cheek and across his eye, and rubbed along the left side of his head, feeling the goose egg there.

“Remember now?” She asked when he cussed and dropped his hand, sipping her tequila contently.

“… Not really.”

The Commodore chuckled unkindly into her glass, “He survives Taelpar Crag and almost kills himself falling into a three-foot gulch…”

“That didn’t happen…” The King’s Shield’s voice was _certain_ , but he stared at her, at her face, searching it for evidence of her lie.  She drank and ignored his searching.

“You’re welcome, by the way.” She said.

He was still looking at her, but the weight of his gaze seemed to be lingering on her neck and bare shoulder, but she refused to look at him so she couldn’t be sure, “What do you want?”

“Money, usually.” She replied easily with a smirk, “Bills to pay and all… But I already know you don’t have any.”

He snorted, and it was a heavy, deep sound from somewhere in the depths of his huge chest. “So what do you want?”

She raised her other leg, stretching it momentarily, watching the traces of soap suds run rivulets down the pale skin before crossing it with the other at the ankle and sipping again, “I dunno.  Been wondering that the whole time you’ve been drooling on the bed I paid for.”

“… Maybe I could owe you one,” Was his dubious offer.

“The Shield of the Lucis King ‘owing one’ to the Commodore of the Niflheim Empire’s Third Army Corps 86th Airborne Unit.  Yeah, I don’t think so.” She swirled the glass and enjoyed the tink and crack of the ice.

He stepped closer to the tub and she glanced at him now, frowning up, up at his face towering over her, and fights down the muscles that want to tighten.  She’s _relaxing_ , dammit. “Maybe I just walk out then.” He said flatly.

“I’m not getting out of this tub to stop you,” Shrugging, she swirled her glass again before taking another drink.

It was funny, because he didn’t.  He didn’t move, he just kept looking down at her and she wondered _why_.  She would have.  She’d have walked right out already.  That was why she agreed on prices _beforehand_ , so she couldn’t get stiffed.

Getting stiffed meant she had to exert the effort to go and earn her well-deserved pay in a pound of flesh from her ex-employer.  That usually drove off business for a while, which sucked.  Getting stiffed just _sucked_.  But Aranea hadn’t been thinking about payment when she picked up the Shield of the Lucian King.  She hadn’t been thinking about money when she’d had him lain unceremoniously on the bed by Biggs and Wedge and casually gone to draw a bath.

She wasn’t thinking about it now, either.

“Anyone ever tell you, lordling Amicitia, that it’s rude to stare?”  She knew the water wasn’t nearly bubbly enough to hide anything.  She’d wanted hot water to soak tired muscles, not a soapy, frothy mess.

“I’m not staring,” He sneered back—and it’s so forced she laughs aloud, “Shut-up, I’m not staring.  Nothing interesting to look at anyway.”

“Of course not.”

“Of _course_ not.”

She took another drink and he still didn’t move, so she uncrossed her ankles and raised her leg, running the big toe of a dripping foot up the inseam of his jeans, “And you’re certainly not getting excited or anything.  Nothing to _get_ excited about…”

“… I have to go.” He moved away almost _self-consciously_ , and it was cute.  Cute to see such a big, built man, a man of seemingly uncompromising self-confidence color like that.  He stepped for the door.

“Bye.”

And stopped at it, lingering in the threshold, the taunt in her farewell catching him. “… What do you _really_ want, Highwind?”

“Nothing, I guess.” She shrugged and raises her glass to take another sip, but he leaned down and snatched it away, gulping it down in a movement more graceful and quick than she anticipated out of a person his size.  All she could do was glower at him, unwilling to get out of the tub and sacrifice her last bit of relaxation.

“You wanna quit toying with me?”

“Get over yourself,” She scoffs, “’toying with you’ implies I’m getting enjoyment out of your company.  I was _enjoying_ that drink.”

His amusement was clear on his face, on the slowly growing smirk, “Want me to make it up to you?”

“ _Please_.” She scoffed with a roll of her eyes, “I haven’t seen anything impressive out of you _yet_ for you to think you can do a _damn thing_ for me, little lordling.”

“ _Yet_ ,” He agreed, still smirking, hooking a thumb in a belt-loop, the weight of his hand and arm dragging his jeans down his hips enough to catch her notice, “But you haven’t exactly seen much of what I have to offer, either.”

“You sure _talk_ a big game…” She sighed, as if the conversation pained her instead of made her heart race, like the way his eyes roved her body under the water, blazing with heat and the shadow of lust, “but can you live up to it?”

“Climb out of that tub and you’ll see.”

“Why don’t you climb _in it_ and _show me_ , little lordling?” She challenged, “Or are you afraid of getting wet?”

There was a moment then, she saw it, where he hesitated and thought it over.  He considered the situation, and all the convoluted twists of it—him, the Shield of the King, and her, the mercenary Commodore working for Niflheim.

The he exhaled and stripped off the sweat-soaked tank top and started toeing off his boots.  When the shirt hit the tile, his hands dropped to the fasten of his jeans, and Aranea watched with interest as he plied them open and slid them down his body.  He was well-built, this Shield of the Lucian King, and proportionate throughout, and now if only she could be certain he knew what to _do_ with all his good-fortune…

Young guys like him were often… clumsy.

Hooking her elbows over the sides of the tub, the dragoon tucked her knees toward her chest, making room for the big man as he climbed into the tub and settled on his knees, leaning toward her, sliding his hands along the edges of the tub as he did so.  Toes finding the solid planes of his chest, she drew one daintily up to hook around the back of his neck and pull him in while the other slid slick and teasing down his belly and between his legs.  He spared a hand to move it away, to the side of his body, so that her thighs parted around him and his hips found hers, his cock hardening against her belly, growing hot there.

“No strings attached?” Was his query as a hand came to support her extended leg, flush against his chest and over his shoulder now, in case she wasn’t as flexible as she seemed when he leaned in to press a kiss below her ear.

She laughed; he had no reason to worry.  About either thing.  “ _Please_ stop flattering yourself, little lordling.”

“No problem,” His other hand slid between where their bodies met intimately, and found her already nearly ready for him, “I’ll let you do it for me, then.”

Aranea shuddered despite herself and relaxed under him.  She’d _earned_ this after all, and was determined to _enjoy_ it.


	8. ((MP Reprint)) Cor x Prompto "You know I’m always here for you, right?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Cor x Prompto
> 
> (Reprinted from [MeteorPublishing](https://meteorpublishing.tumblr.com/tagged/MTRaki))

It was weird to think they might have things in common.  Cor was the legendary wonder soldier, the Marshal of the Crownsguard, the _Immortal_ , one of the greatest, strongest fighters in all of Eos!  He was brave, hard-working, responsible, and _really smart_ , in a quiet, very humble kind of way, strikingly different from Ignis (Not that Ignis was _arrogant_ about it, he just didn’t bother being _humble_ about it, either).  He was funny in a sharp, sometimes very dark way– especially when he turned self-deprecating– and he could cut someone down to size with his wit, and _did_ , but it was always very _fair_.  Nobody was knocked down without the invitation to get back up again.

Prompto was… _Prompto_.  And he found he liked Cor immensely.  Not just admiration, he genuinely _liked_ him.   _A lot_.  But it was still weird to think they could have anything in common.

Even so, watching Cor watch the fire, sitting very still, barely seeming to even _breathe_ , Prompto thought he was doing the thing _Prompto_ did sometimes early in the morning, alone with his camera.  It wasn’t the _same_ , but _they_ weren’t the same.  Cor had a quieter, more composed personality– rock-solid, him– but he kept himself active and busy almost all hours (he was on his phone even more frequently than Ignis) and so it made sense that his introspection would be very composed, and very very still.  On the other hand, Prompto could never figure out _what_ to do with all his nervous energy, even when trying to sort his thoughts, so it was just easier to go out and look for some complicated shots to take and hope everything fell into place by the time he was done.

The Marshal didn’t emote through his facial expressions or even overt body cues.  His tone was often difficult to place, though his words were always clear and straightforward.  Sarcasm was always overt, thankfully, usually delivered in a _soul-crushing_ deadpan. So reading the Marshal was pretty difficult.  The blond thought he was starting to figure it out, though.  He thought maybe there was a pinch more tension in his posture, in his hands.  Maybe something a little deeper to the frown, something more grim in the furrowed brows.  He did this, sometimes.  Sat still and quiet, steely eyes watching something far, far away that only he could see, instead of carefully, sharply aware of everything around him.

Prompto wondered if he felt as _profoundly lonely_ as he did during those early morning photo-shoots, when it was just him and the mess in his head.

If Cor minded or even _noticed_ the staring, he never said anything– Prompto was sure he was _aware_ of it.  The man was aware of _everything_.   _Always_.  With a sigh, the blond went and sat beside him, trying his best to ignore the boiling anxiety in his guts.  Cor was aware of _everything, always_ , except maybe (just _maybe_ ) how strongly Prompto felt about him.  How every look and word jolted through his chest until the blond thought his heart might _explode_.  Prompto was aware of it pretty much _always_ , even when he ought to be paying attention to _everything_ _else_.  “How long did it take you to master that?”

“Hm?”

“… That cool thousand yard stare.”

The Marshal snorted, “About thirty years.  What’s on your mind?” And he looked at him.

Looking back would chase all the words out of his mouth and leave him with a head empty of everything but _dumb_ , so Prompto didn’t look back at him, instead focused on the fire, chewing on his lips and fiddling with his gloves. “Nothing.  Just… wondering what’s on yours.”

“I asked first.”

“… No, really.  I… Ah geez!” Bringing up both hands, the blond rubbed his face vigorously, “… Just… You know I’m here, right?  For you. I mean, I’m already here _with_ you… but I can be here _for_ you, right?  You know…? You know I’m _always_ here for you, right?  If you want to… talk, or get something off your chest.  I know I screw a lot of stuff up… and I’m not great at _keeping up_ , yet… not with _you_ anyway… but, I mean, I’m _here_.  With you. For you. Ugh… shit… _Shut up_ , Prom…”

His face ended up back in his hands, elbows on his folded legs.  Why was he such an _idiot_? Gladio and Ignis would have said it so much better– sounding cool and confident.  Like somebody that could _be_ depended on.  Even Noctis could have done better.

Then he felt a strong hand rake fingers through his hair, not _gently_ , but not rough either. “… Thanks.”

The blond didn’t move, and couldn’t respond, because every part of him was focused with all his attention on the _hand in his hair_ , and how it went away too soon.  He heard Cor shift his seat.

“For the record, _I’ll_ tell you when to shut-up.  Deal?”

“Y-yeah…o-okay.”

Prompto could hear the raised eyebrow in the sardonic lilt of the Marshal’s otherwise neutral tone, “… Did you hurt yourself?”

Embarrassed, the blond popped his head back up out of his hands, “Uhh no.  I’m good.”

“Good.”


	9. ((MP Reprint)) (NSFW) Prompto x Cor "Revealing Tags"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Prompto x Cor  
> After writing the previous Prompto x Cor fic, I wondered what the ship was called... so then I made a fic about it!
> 
> (Reprinted from [MeteorPublishing](https://meteorpublishing.tumblr.com/tagged/MTRaki))

Prompto was struggling.  He’d managed to get all his camera photos uploaded into his phone, and he had good signal.  Now all he needed was the right _tag._   The right label to put this collection under so people would see it and knew what it _meant._

Maybe it was stupid.  Maybe it was dumb to think it meant anything to anybody else.  Maybe it was dumb to think it meant anything at _all_.  Maybe it didn’t even mean anything to—

But then Cor stepped out of the shower and the movement drew up Prompto’s gaze away from the screen, and his brain short-circuited for a little while.  Because Cor was naked.  Cor was naked, reaching for the towel he’d left folded on the counter.  Cor was naked, and he probably felt the weight of Prompto’s staring, but he didn’t seem to care at all.  Cor was naked.

The camera was in his hands.  That was Prompto’s next lucid thought: _the camera is already in my hands._

“Do.  Not.” The older man said in his firmest, most blood-curdling tone as he ruffled the towel over his short hair and down his face.

“J-just the waist u—“

“No.”

“Shoulders?”

“Prompto.”

Defeated, the blond watched Cor dry himself, almost half-heartedly, then wrap the towel around his hips. “… Now?”

“If you take a photo of me tonight, you will not have your camera or your phone tomorrow.”

Such threats were not made lightly.  Cor always meant what he said.  _Always._   “Come _on_ , you have no idea how much the ‘promcor’ fans need it!”

“The what fans?”

“Uh… I said ‘promcor’ but maybe that’s not what it is… ‘Corprom’?  ‘Corpto’?  ‘Copto’? ‘Promtor’?  Six, this is hard…!”

Cor was staring at him, and Prompto self-consciously changed his seating position because _Cor was looking at him_ and he was just _barely_ _not-naked_.  Cor already _knew_ he was hot for him—burning, on fire, ‘Ravatogh-had-nothing-on-this’ hot—but really hadn’t brought it up since the big (completely unintentional) reveal, so Prompto did his best to _let it go_.  So he wouldn’t accidentally get his stupid feelings _crushed_.  It was enough that Cor was still _comfortable_ around him—comfortable being _naked_ around him, even.  There wasn’t a good reason to make things awkward with a big, dumb boner he’d have to do something about later, probably.  By himself, away from the Marshal.

Cor’s eyebrows pinched together, “What are you talking about?”

“Internet tags.  F-for my photos?”

Eyes narrowing, Cor asked, “… Photos of me?”

Prompto could feel himself deflating, leaking confidence in spewing gouts like a sieve had opened inside him, “Of… of us.” He said quietly.

“Us.” The Marshal acceded dubiously. “Photos of us on the internet.”

It was stupid.  It was dumb. “Y… yeah.  Nothing… nothing crazy.  I mean I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t have put you n-n-naked up… Obviously.”

“ _Obviously._ ” Was the scoff down the narrow length of the caravan.  Cor was checking the condition of his pants—still wet, apparently, since he didn’t move to put them on, remaining in the towel and causing Prompto’s brain to misfire every second it _wasn’t_ telling him how stupid he was.

“I wouldn’t!  Th-that’s seriously messed up!” He protested insistently despite his steadily weakening tone, “I-it’s like a crime and everything!”

The steely blue eyes were back to staring at him, but it didn’t have the same effect as earlier—though little had changed there, regardless—and the blond shifted uneasily, completely unable to meet his look.  It was stupid.  It was dumb.  He’d fucked up.  It didn’t mean anything, just his stupid feelings running on ahead like they shouldn’t.  It was his own stupid fault for them getting crushed.

It didn’t mean anything…

“… So the tag is… our names?”

“Huh?  O-oh.  Yeah.  Or parts of them.  So… people can find the photos if they search it.” Suddenly tired, Prompto, gestured with his free hand, “… Y-y’know, just… forget it.  Was just saying stuff…”

Cor seemed to consider that, then shrugged, “Why not just ‘Prompto and Cor’?”

“That could work on… I guess normal browser searches.  But not on the platform I’m on.  Needs to be shorter, no spaces.  Also… the naming convention usually… it s-says something.  About what the photos mean.” It was dumb.  It was stupid.  He absolutely wasn’t going to say it out loud.

But Cor was already thinking about it, watching his face.  Instead of asking the questions Prompto knew he had, the man said, “Putting the names together into one name indicates that we’re together.  A couple.”

Stupid of him, to forget how damn smart the Marshal was.  Sure, he might not be keyed in on all the internet culture, but he could figure things out—the way people talked about or _around_ things.  He had to be to manage the entire Crownsguard.

It was stupid.  It was dumb.  It didn’t _mean_ anything.  It was just in his head.

Except now it was out in the open, bleeding and flopping around on the floor between them.  This stupid little idea, this _fantasy_ that just because the Marshal hadn’t yet shoved him away or forged on ahead without him meant maybe he had a _shot._   This illusion that Cor _liked him_ instead of _looked out_ for him.  What could he offer this person?  Exactly _what_ could he hope to offer this amazing person besides one headache after another?

“…’Proco’.”

“Huh?”

“No.  ‘Procor’.  ‘Corto.’” Then he chuckled and looked at the ceiling, and the shadow of a smile on his face made the blond forget all his misgivings for a breath or two.  He’d give a lot—a _whole lot_ —to keep that expression on the other man’s face, “’Orto’.”

“Seriously?” Prompto snorted, “That’s terrible.”

“’Toor’?”

“You’re just _trying_ to make them terrible now.”

Cor grinned, a brief flash of teeth and humor, “Cut me some slack, I’m new at this.”

Staring, Prompto didn’t remember climbing to his feet, too dumbstruck by the expressions on the Marshal’s face.  To stunned to laugh or joke or even take a photo.  Too busy staring and _wanting_ to do anything else—even try and _hide it._

The Marshal stopped grinning when he saw his expression.  Sobering, he crossed the length of the caravan to lean close.  Still mostly-naked, wearing only the thin towel around his hips.  Prompto did not _cower_ against the wall, but it was a very near thing. “Cut us _both_ some slack…” Cor said, voice low.

The blond gulped, “Uh-huh.  S-sure.  As-as much as you want.  All th-the slack…”

“Not that much,” Was the correction as the bigger man loomed even closer.

“O-o-kay… W-what are you…?”

He didn’t finish.  Cor had pressed his brow against his, so they were eye to eye even though he’d had to bend more than six inches to get there.  Prompto’s breath caught at the _weight_ , the _intimacy_ of it.  It wasn’t a kiss, and part of him _wanted it to be_ , but Cor had done this on his own and it felt…

It felt _important_.  More important than wanting a kiss or the right internet tag.

Cor’s eyes were lowered, almost half-closed it seemed, and one of his hands rested on the back of Prompto’s neck, “Just a little slack.  I don’t do this… much.”

“It… it’s okay.”

“I’ll get myself straightened out.  I just need… a little more time.”

“Y-you don’t have to, Cor… R-really…” It was weird to think _Cor, the Immortal_ would need to ‘take things slow’ to ‘straighten himself out’.  It was _strange_ to think the Marshal had _hang-ups_ he had to get over.  Prompto realized he didn’t really know him that well, which bothered him, a little, considering the strength of his feelings.

The steely eyes rose, pinning him more effectively than his hand or his forehead, “I _want_ to.”

Then he stepped away, leaving Prompto completely devastated there against the wall in the wake of the bombs he’d dropped.  It wasn’t stupid.  It wasn’t dumb.  It wasn’t just in his head.

It was real.

It was _real_.

Prompto didn’t solve his tag dilemma that night.  He didn’t sleep much either.


	10. The Self-Insert Prompt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:
> 
> As your happy neighbor I let in your bf. He’s waiting in the kitchen I think? Meanwhile: Cor waited by the stove as his famous ‘chef in one pot’ simmered away. He had to wear your apron to keep his nice pants from getting anything on them. Hearing you come in he turned and greeted you with a nod then a hug that was moderately awkward. “Welcome home. I hope you’re hungry.”

 

_Thank you for this, Anon, it was super sweet and made me pretty useless for a day or so! >///< But I decided to write a tiny blurb back!_

* * *

 

 

“I… you… um…?”

“I came to see my favorite girls.” He informed me plainly.  The three cats in question were still meowing loudly in various places around the kitchen, eager for our (mostly _his_ ) attention.

“Right.  Are you making them dinner?”

He furrowed his brow at me momentarily, then asked, “…Do you think it’d be alright?”

“No!  Cor my cats don’t eat people food… Misty’s on a hypoallergenic diet and Gidget already has kidney failure…”

Snorting, he picked up the serving spoon he’d been using, “And Persephone eats marinara sauce out of the pot.”

“That was _one time_!” I protested, heading for the stairs to change, determined to _absolutely_ not have my feelings hurt that _Cor fucking Leonis_ was going steady with me _just_ to hang out with my cats.


	11. ((MP Reprint)) Pining and Routine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "May I please request a cute and fluffy night out camping with Promnis? SFW please?" - Anon
> 
> Characters: Prompto x Ignis  
> (Reprinted from [MeteorPublishing](https://meteorpublishing.tumblr.com/tagged/MTRaki))

* * *

It was a clear night, the stars twinkling in the deep velvet of the night sky, undisturbed by the light breeze that rustled through the brush on the back side of the camp.  Prompto came back to the firelight from the edge of the haven, overlooking the bluff, from where he’d been observing the lightning storm creeping over the horizon.

“It’s not moving very fast,” Was his nonchalant remark, “Looks pretty cool, though.”

Ignis’s tone was knowing, “It will be upon us by tomorrow afternoon.  I doubt you will enjoy it as thoroughly then.”

“Only if you leave the top down.”

Apparently unwilling to give that a reply, the older man adjusted his glasses, “Why are you still awake, Prompto?”

It was just the two of them for now.  The Prince and his Shield had gone off for some ‘advanced training’ which Prompto was convinced meant ‘fishing’ while Ignis claimed that whatever it was would devolve quickly into bickering.  That had left the two of them to handle the business of setting up camp, which had gone well enough, if Prompto said so himself.

But after cooking and eating and cleaning up, the blond had to banish himself to the far end of the haven so he wouldn’t make a _nuisance_ of himself.  His entire body hummed with nervous energy, because he was _alone_ with _Ignis_.  Which was fine!  Had been fine, anyway, until they’d run out of things to do and Ignis had started to address the emails on his phone, convincing Prompto that he ought to be quiet and unobtrusive so his friend could work.

The blond rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously, “Uh, y’know, just restless.”

“I see.” And Ignis went back to work.

Prompto paced back and forth, then finally went and sat down next to his friend, folding his legs under him.

“Do you miss having a computer?” He asked.

Ignis glanced at him, then straightened to look at him properly, “What do you mean?”

“Like, you know, for doing work.  Do you miss having a computer or laptop?”

Pursing his lips momentarily, Ignis shook his head in the negative, “Not really.  I’ve grown accustomed to working from a mobile phone for years now. Computers– even laptop computers– are more ungainly and more dependent on an external power-source.  Both of these factors make them less useful in respect of my duties.”

Prompto nodded, “I guess that makes sense…”

Ignis was about to turn back to his work, but then he hesitated and queried, “…Why do you ask?”

“Oh,” Prompto shrugged, “no reason.  Just making conversation. A lot of people don’t like having to write long responses without a real keyboard.”

“Do _you_ miss computers?”

“Not really.  I gamed on the console or my mobile phone, y’know?  Computer was mostly for homework, and who misses _that_?”

“What _do_ you miss from the Crown City?” Ignis queried then, seizing Prompto’s gaze with his own.

Ignis had an intense gaze.  Unwavering and sharp, even if he didn’t intend for it to be intimidating, it always was.  Like a scalpel, it cut right through Prompto, and it was all he could do to keep from shrinking into the stone of the haven under their feet. “M-m-me?  M-m-miss? From the c-c-ity?”

“Yes.  Is there anything in particular that you miss?”

Meeting Ignis’s look, it was hard to think about anything besides how overwhelmed he felt under those green eyes, and how much he wanted to have his attention like this forever, until it didn’t feel so gut-wrenchingly terrifying.  But he had to say _something_.  He had to give an answer, because Ignis was _expecting_ one, and Prompto desperately didn’t want to disappoint his expectations.

“… Nah.  I’ve got my camera, my buds, my meals are great, new adventure every day, and most days I’ve got cell service!  What more could a guy ask for?” He grinned, hoping the bravado wasn’t as obvious to the advisor as it was his own ears.

Ignis snorted, “A suitable bathtub and working toilets, I’d say.”

“R-Really…?”

  
“Yes, indeed,” The man in glasses groused, “If I had to count the amount of toilets that either backed up or refused to flush that I’ve encountered on this trip, I’d soon run out of fingers and toes.  Even if a room we’ve rented features a tub– which I can count on one hand the amount of times, though I don’t need to, because it is exactly _three_ – it’s always been a shallow, narrow basin under a mildewed shower-head with no room whatsoever for a grown human to actually indulge in a bath.”

Prompto was laughing before the end of his friend’s diatribe.  Part of him wondered if that was why Ignis had brought it up in the first place– to be funny.  “You’re sounding pretty entitled there, Iggy.”

“I suppose.  I was born to a certain standard of living, and raised alongside the Prince.  Still, working toilets are basic amenities.”

“Life’s hard out here in the sticks, huh?”

“Certainly _messier_.”

The blond continued laughing, more at the put-upon expression on Ignis’s face than anything else.  He’d put his hand on his shoulder, intending to pat in a jest of consolation, but then Ignis had leaned toward him and so his hand rested there instead.  He was warm. Warm and solid, and Prompto couldn’t convince himself to move his hand again. The realization was enough to stifle the laughter.

Clearing his throat, he said, “… I kinda miss the old routine?  Not because of what it _was_ , but because I knew what to expect?  Wake up at four, drink some water, dress, warm-up, run.  Long runs on Tuesday and Fridays, short runs every other day but Saturday.  Shower, breakfast, meet the Marshal for training… I kinda miss the familiarity… Just sometimes, y’know?”

“Change is often difficult,” Ignis agreed, “but we do have a sort of routine to our days now.  It will become familiar in time.”  
“Yeah.” The blond shrugged, unable to meet his gaze this time, “I know.  I don’t want you to think I regret coming…”  
“I don’t think that.”  
“…Cool.  Good.”

They sat there quietly for a few heartbeats, Prompto feeling his start to race for no reason except that Ignis hadn’t shrugged away from his hand.

Then, “Is everything all right, Prompto?”

“Yeah…?  Why wouldn’t–”  
“… It’s just that your hand is still on my shoulder.”  
“Oh.”  Flushing, he released Ignis, immediately missing the solid warmth.  He felt Ignis’s perceptive gaze, and then a gloved hand came up, brushing his hair away from his brow.

“Are you _quite sure_ you’re alright?  Your face is very red…”

“I’m fine, I think I’m just gonna go to sleep now…” Prompto was on his feet and retreating to the tent before he saw the bemused expression on Ignis’s face.


	12. Kingsglaive Divergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prowlingthunder asked:  
> Hey, Prompts open? Kingsglaive divergence, Ravus Pocketed The Ring Instead Of Putting It On Like A Moron.

[[I know you have been waiting forever for this!  I’m sorry! I hope you like it!]]

( _THIS IS SO GOOD.  But there’s a problem: Per canon, originally the plot to offer a fake peace treaty to get the Ring and the Crystal are Ravus’s idea.  The massacre in the Citadel isn’t just a dick move to stab Lucis in the back, it’s just the means to get the Ring and the distraction to get the Crystal.  Those two items were the objective.  So it’s hard to imagine the Niflheim forces would leave without both accounted for.  In the Kingsglaive film, Glauca knows where the Ring is– Lunafreya or Nyx has it, which is why he keeps trying to get them until his climactic fight with Nyx and his subsequent defeat and death.  But what would happen if Glauca cuts off Regis’s hand in the treaty room and nobody knows where the Ring went?  Even manufacturing that instance is difficult because Glauca and Regis were essentially alone in the room when it happened…_ )

(I’LL DO MY BEST TO SUMMARIZE THE TWO MOST-LIKELY SCENARIOS [ _separated by *s_ ]) :

* * *

 

  
It was the metaphorical pin-drop in the room, repeated in unbalanced cadence.  General Glauca turned his helmed head to track it, and King Regis took the opportunity to thrust forward his still-whole hand, now empty of his sword, and cast a sharp gout of lightning into his foe.

Whether this truly accomplished anything more than distraction, Ravus did not know, but he took the opportunity to tuck the fallen Ring of the Lucii under the shoulder of the nearest corpse with the toe of his boot before stepping further into the chamber and drawing his saber as if he were committed to stepping to the General’s defense.

It would have suited himself _just fine_ if the two killed each other without his interference.  All he wanted was the Ring and the power that came with it– power enough to throw off the shackles of the Empire and reclaim his homeland and throne.

But keeping appearances was something Ravus Nox Fleuret had grown accustomed to over these long, long years.  Just a little more patience was needed…

Despite his injury and age, the King of Lucis was swift to reclaim his blade and parry away the swift down-stroke of Ravus’s blade.  It was a weak and obvious strike, but it _looked good,_ and that was his only goal now.  He knew what would come next.

“Stay back, Nox Fleuret.” Growled the General, his voice heavily modulated by the magitek armor, “His life is mine, not for your glory-seeking.”

Oh, Ravus _did_ seek glory– _Tenebrae’s glory_ – and he knew it wasn’t bought with the blood of the King of Lucis.  Not even in all his hate did he think so.

No, leave that to satiate the bloodthirst and vengeance the General had been nursing for so many years.

“Secure the Ring.”

Ravus turned his back, then, on King Regis as Glauca stepped forward to dispatch him, and thought it fitting.  Let him suffer the same dread as Ravus had.

_Let him suffer._

With convincing urgency, he made a show of scanning the floor, stooping and moving bodies before returning to where he knew it was.  His timing was good, for Glauca was busy admiring the culmination of all his plotting realized at last, and the running footsteps charging down the corridor had not yet arrived to see him.

The Ring of the Lucii was tucked away into his keeping.

  
Then his beloved sister, Lunafreya, entered the room accompanied by one of the Kingsglaive.

“King Regis!” The Oracle cried.  With a shout, the Kingsglaive launched himself at Glauca.  Briefly, Ravus wondered what he planned to do with the source of his power gone.  It was only a brief curiosity. The majority of his attention was on seizing his sister by her arm and keeping her away from danger.  He doubted Glauca would hesitate in slaying her if she interfered.

  
He was surprised to see that he spared the Kingsglaive, leaving him broken on the floor, but still breathing.

“The Ring?” He demanded.

“I’ve not seen it.”

A team of MTs clattered into the room, giving Ravus an idea, “Let them search.  They can dig up the floor if needed. I will go and place the Oracle back into Niflheim custody where she will cause no further harm.”

  
*  ”Go.” And Glauca turned away, giving directions to the MTs to search the floor and littered corpses for the Ring of Lucii.

Ravus had no doubt the corpses would be stripped and the floor dug up before the night ended.  Perhaps fortune would favor him again, and someone would come and deal with the General before his suspicions turned his way.

The airship was waiting, and he locked his sister away, ignoring the accusation in her looks and her queries as well as her demands.  Let her think what she wished now. Once Tenebrae was ripped from the greedy clutches of Niflheim, he would explain all and perhaps… perhaps she would even forgive him and all he’d been willing to sacrifice.

Even if she didn’t, a lifetime of her resentment and ire would be worth it to see her safe again.

  
Later, he learned that the General met his end in the treaty room, not far from the King of Lucis, at the hands of the legendary “Immortal”, Cor Leonis, with some assistance from the thought-defeated Kingsglaive that Glauca had foolishly left alive.

Both men were still at large.

  
Later _still_ , secluded in his offices, Ravus decided his moment had arrived at last…

Hours later, after commanding enough composure into his manner and body language, and after convincing the servants and soldiers that all was well, he went out of the manor in a heavy coat to disguise his injury.

The Ring of Lucii left his keeping into the fast moving river that fed north into the sea.

  
Only the Chancellor of Niflheim, Ardyn Izunia, seemed to ascertain how his injury had come about, if his strange, sly comments were to be understood.

  
(end 1)

* * *

 

  
** “Wait.” Glauca barked. “Turn out your pockets.”

“What?  Turn out–”

“–You’ve been sniffing around the court long enough for me to know you seek opportunity like a snake, Nox Fleuret.  The Ring is too crucial for me to ignore my doubt. Turn out your pockets.”  
“You _dare_ accuse me of _theft_?” Ravus buried his worry in audacity and offense, clinging to his haughty exterior.  If he was discovered now…

The General stepped forward, a terrible crunch of steel against the marble tile, like the tolling of judgement, “Turn out your pockets.”

Ravus didn’t move, scrambling.  Trying to _think_ …

“Search him.” Glauca ordered the waiting MTs.

“Ravus…?” Lunafreya murmured.

* * *

 

_(From here, it seems pretty grim for Ravus.  He knows if the Ring is found, it’s **curtains** for him and likely his sister as well.  He can try to fight, but I have no idea how long he’d last– we don’t have a very good measure of how strong Ravus really is at this stage without his magitek prosthetic, though he’s purportedly an excellent swordsman.  He might put on the Ring after all, as a last ditch effort, and we all know how that turns out… Really his only hope is to try and escape, and his chances of doing so in an unfamiliar city that Glauca **is** familiar with is not great…)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got questions? Want to talk about it? [Here's your mic! ](https://mtraki.tumblr.com/ask)


	13. Ignis/Lunafreya Headcanon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prowlingthunder asked:  
> Ship meme: Ignis/Lunafreya

_(Sorry for making you wait so long for this!)_

_(Side note: what do we call this?  “Lunis”?  “Ignafreya”?_

* * *

 

**Who asks the other on dates:**  


  * Ignis asks like a proper gentleman, of course!  




** Who is the bigger cuddler: **

  * Lunafreya for sure.  They both do a good job of keeping noble bearing for appearances, but she really, really just wants some affection.  




** Who initiates holding hands more often: **

  * Lunafreya does that super-hesitant finger-brushing stuff, but very infrequently commits to a hand-hold.
  * Ignis can think of many practical reasons why he ought to hold her hand in various situations.  




** Who remembers anniversaries: **

  * Ignis forgets nothing.  Ever.  He also prides himself on making such occasions just as subtle or ostentatious as proper or preferred.
  * Luna’s better about remember other things– like the name of the clerk’s cat at Ignis’s favorite tie store, who was sick, and they definitely sent a card.  Because of _course_ they did.  




** Who is more possessive: **

  * Ignis, though he’s a far cry less possessive than _Ravus_ , so Luna and those around her hardly notice.  




** Who gets more jealous: **

  * Ignis.  See above…
  * Really, though, he appreciates and understands her role both as Princess and as Oracle, and would never fault her for her dedication to her many duties and those who rely on her.  (He’s not THAT much of a hypocrite)  The trouble comes in when she agrees to meet with some single, ranked gentleman who is _clearly_ here as a suitor.
    * He never says anything discourteous to either her or the gentleman in question, but the servants know.  Oh.  They _know_.
      * There _was_ one rather pushy fellow, though, who left in a _hurry_ after he and Ignis happened to be in the WC together for a few minutes.  




** Who is more protective: **

  * They’re both fairly protective of each other in different aspects:


  * Lunafreya will hear no naysaying concerning Ignis’s lack of rank or breeding.  She will tolerate no slander against him.
    * Ignis can basically get away with murder.
      * Which he is keenly aware of.  



  * Ignis likewise takes her physical security and reputation in equal measures of seriousness.  It’s only natural that he’s translated his previous services to Noctis to his current services to Lunafreya– even though he doesn’t officially hold that role in the court.  




** Who is more likely to cheat: **

  * Honestly, I don’t think either of them are capable of it?  Basing off canon, their loyalty is pretty ridiculous.  




** Who initiates sexy times the most: **

  * Probably Lunafreya.  She’s probably much more vocal about what she wants.  




** Who dislikes PDA the most: **

  * Ignis.  Though they’re both very proper while in public, Ignis is that much more fastidious.
    * He has to protect her reputation!



** Who kills the spider: **

  * Ignis usually takes the spider outside.  Lunafreya doesn’t want to be anywhere near it, but she also doesn’t want it dead.  




** Who asks the the other to marry them: **

  * Ignis _would_ , as a proper gentleman ought… But he can’t for very political reasons.  It’s more important to him to protect the nobility of her reputation.  




** Who buys the other flowers or gifts: **

  * Ignis has fresh flowers for Lunafreya’s room and office every day.
  * Luna will find small, useful gifts when she’s out and about.
    * He always tells her “you shouldn’t have” and she always replies, “I absolutely should have.  So I did.”
    * (She’s dying to get him a cute lapel pin, but hasn’t found one she’s sure he’ll like/wear)  




** Who would bring up possibly having kids: **

  * Lunafreya probably _wants_ kids, but she won’t bring it up.  She knows that will lead to a very civil, pragmatic conversation about marriage… as in _marrying someone **else**_.  




** Who is more nervous to meet the parents: **

  * This is actually a non-issue.  I headcanon that Ignis is native Tenebraen, so… Ignis’s parents were in Lunafreya’s parents’ court.  They already knew each other.  




** Who sleeps on the couch when the other is angry: **

  * Neither.  If they’re fighting, Ignis will go to his own room in the manor.  If it’s real serious, he can always get a hotel.
    * They’re proper, upstanding Tenebraen gentry.  Someone sleeping on the couch will highlight there’s a _serious problem in the manor_.  Airing dirty laundry like that is for uncultured persons.  




** Who tries to make up first after arguments: **

  * It depends!
  * They’re both very passionate about their opinions and can be very stubborn in the defense of them!
  * Lunafreya will want to make up because she doesn’t want these negative feelings between them anymore.
  * Ignis will want to make up because he’s basically hard-wired, deep inside, to defer to her rank and authority  

  * So it will come down to which one of those caves first
    * Probably Ignis…  




** Who tells the other they love them more often: **

  * Lunafreya.  This is one of the few forms of affection she will absolutely not hesitate to initiate.



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got questions? Want to talk about it? [Here's your mic! ](https://mtraki.tumblr.com/ask)


	14. “Be more careful next time. I don’t want to bandage you up again.” Gladio/F!Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> momokitty27 asked:  
> Protective sentences: “Be more careful next time. I don’t want to bandage you up again.” For Female reader who is a brash fighter and Gladio who is a bit upset with her.

_(I made you wait so long for this, I’m so sorry!  Here it is, though, after all its many rewrites!  I hope you like it!  Thank you for waiting!)_

_(As before: I use ‘Nonnie’ for <reader>.  I find it less jarring than <y/n> and other formats.  You/your OC/your fav otp can be Nonnie!)_

* * *

 

For a long time the two of you sat wordless while Gladiolus’s strong hands proved themselves capable of gentleness not oft shown as he wound the sterile bandage around your forearm.  You’d already protested that you could ‘take care of it yourself’, but he’d cut you off with that scowl and low grunt like he always did.  So now you sat docile under his hands on the bench just outside the female locker room.

“You know,” He broke the silence at last, his tone finding more of the friendliness he usually reserved for other occasions, “there’s a _difference_ between ‘fearlessness’ and ‘recklessness’.” 

Opening your mouth, you started to retort that you _knew that_ , and that you _weren’t_ reckless.  You’d known _exactly_ what you were doing!  Sure, you _hadn’t_ anticipated your rival and training partner to counter like _that_ , but he sure as hell hadn’t expected you to throw yourself into it _anyway_ to finally score a hit of your own!

You were always throwing yourself into things.  Into the Crownsguard, into training, into friendships, into fights, and into Gladio.  It was just the way you were, and there was really no point in doing anything other than _accepting_ and _embracing_ it.  Like the sea, in mighty waves, you threw yourself at every challenge, not concerning yourself with how gracelessly and painfully you might crash into the cliffside– you’d just build up momentum to try again.  Eventually, every challenge came crashing down in your wake.

In fact, the only thing you _hadn’t_ yet thrown yourself into, was love.  But that was simply because ‘love’ didn’t look like a cliffside that could eventually be worn down, from where you were sitting.  No.  More likely, love was a deep chasm, and if you threw yourself into it, there’d be no pulling yourself back and nothing to catch you.  One day you might decide it was worth the risk… but after all, you weren’t _reckless_.

“Shut up.” You said instead, deciding you knew better than to try and start a pointless argument after what had happened.

“Yeah, well, be more careful next time,” Were his instructions after the bandage end was tucked away securely and taped in place, and he ruffled your hair with his large hand in a gesture that was probably supposed to be mildly affectionate, but always struck you as kind of demeaning.  You shrugged away and slapped his hand aside, causing him to laugh the rest of his words, “I don’t want to bandage you up again.”

“Nobody asked you to!” You told him in a huff, getting up and storming into the locker room, feeling some satisfaction with how the door slammed behind you.

You didn’t want him or _anybody_ either coddling or patronizing you.  Not even Gladio, who was arguably more of a friend and ally to you than anybody else in the Crownsguard training regiment.  Your strong-willed, energetic, fearlessness in the face of every challenge often had your peers groaning and your instructors rolling their eyes with deep sighs, but Gladiolus Amicitia just sort of shrugged and gave a small smile with a gleam in his eye.  Sometimes you wondered if he was laughing at you.

His girlfriends usually were.  There seemed to be a new one every two weeks or so, and each one was as awful as the last.  You weren’t _jealous_ , of course.  The fact that Gladio was handsome and skilled and nice to you had nothing to do with it.  He just had terrible taste in women, and you were sure to tell him so after he’d firmly said goodbye to the latest one, sending her on her way, after lunch break, when she’d decided to make a scathing comment about your training-battered appearance.  He just shrugged at you with that little smile and that gleam in his warm eyes.

* * *

You were finishing up loading the truck for your supply run to ‘New’ Lestallum–that’s what the locals of ‘Old’ Lestallum called the electricity powerhouse to the north– checking the cabin for your phone charger cable and extra batteries for the radio.  With the way comms networks all over the continent were going up and down, you could expect updates and instructions from either one.  Besides, your favorite music was on your phone, and what was a roadtrip without good tunes?

Initially, you hated the assignment.  It seemed like you were getting banished off to this little town far away from everyone and everything– like they were _finally_ ‘getting rid’ of you.  It didn’t take long, though, for you to figure out that you had been put here on _purpose_ : because you had the initiative to take on all the tasks that _wouldn’t be_ assigned.  Old Lestallum was one of the westernmost outposts in Lucis, and as such, was one of the first places on the continent any troop movements from Niflheim would stop– often to resupply.  It was left up to you to assess whether or not that troop movement was reported to the rest of the resistance or stopped dead.  Nobody was here to tell you it was a bad idea, either way.  Your bosses relied on your prowess and fearlessness, alone.  It was a hard-won trust, and so you found pride in your remote assignment.  Besides those official duties, you spent a lot of time working with the hunters who congregated in the town between contracts.  The townsfolk also knew who to talk to about getting difficult-to-acquire necessities.  You kept busy and were never bored.

“You’re alive,” A familiar voice intoned breathlessly behind you, “You made it out of the city.”

Slamming the truck door closed, you looked over you your shoulder at the huge man there.  Of course you recognized Gladiolus Amicitia on sight.

“You look like shit, Amicitia.” You told him.  He didn’t, really.  He looked much the same as last time you’d seen him in the Crown City, some weeks before it fell.  His dark hair and beard were somewhat more unkempt, and his fatigues needed a good washing (as did his entire self, really), but there wasn’t much the road or wilderness could do to his rugged good looks.  The most alarming part of his appearance was that he was alone. “Where’re your friends?”

His ‘friends’ being the Crown Prince (well, the King now, you supposed.  The new King of Lucis.  Huh…) his advisor, and his crash-course-Crownsguard-trained best friend.  Gladiolus was the King’s Shield.  What was he doing away from the King?

“Cape Caem,” He said, still staring at you in shock.  It was mildly amusing, but also starting to feel offensive, “Left them there a week or so ago.  Need to do something.  But you… You really made it out.”

“Of course I made it out.” You scoffed, feeling the old anger curl in your chest, “Maybe you didn’t notice while you were doing your important Shielding, or whatever, but I happened to turn out _really damn good_ at my job.”  Despite all the naysaying and scoffing and groaning and eye-rolling.  Maybe _in spite_ of them, honestly.

After graduating training, your friendship faded away.  He had his important duties, and you were working on proving yourself to the Crownsguard.  You only ever met on rare occasions for refresher training, but most of the Shield’s training was in private lessons with his father, or the Marshal, anyway.  He was _too important_ to remain in your small social circle.  Still, you’d heard and seen enough of him to know how he was growing and improving.  Except with his taste in awful girlfriends.  That apparently never changed.

“No, I know,” He said, “… That’s why I thought… I thought you might have been there.  At the Citadel.”

Softening, you shook your head, “No.  None of us were, you know.  His Majesty re-assigned us all to the city to protect the citizens.  Only the Kingsglaive and the MPs were at the Citadel.  I… I’m sorry about your dad.”

You were.  The news of each death had infuriated and wounded you on almost a _personal_ level, because you were _sure_ you could have _done something_ if you had only _been there_.  But the news of Lord Amicitia’s death had made you think of your old friend, and you’d bled for him and his sister.

“Yeah.” He said, ruffling his hair self-consciously, “Thanks.  I’m glad you’re ok.  What are you doing in Old Lestallum?”

“Keeping busy.  Running interference, giving the Imperials hell.  Keeping the legends alive.”

“ _Legends_ , huh?”

Grinning, you leaned back against the truck, hearing the familiar groan of springs, “Sure.  This town is full of old stories of adventure and daring.  Stick around awhile and the people will be more than happy to tell you.  Even if you beg them to stop.”  
Gladio’s gaze seemed to turn inward, and you could almost see your words circle in his mind, “… ‘Old stories’… huh…”

“So,” You said, arching an eyebrow, “what are you doing here?  What’s this ‘ _something_ ’ you need to do?”

“… I didn’t really know until… just now, I think.  Thanks.”

“You’re welcome?” Then you frowned, “Wait a minute, why are you taking advice from _me_?  Don’t you have that brainy four-eyes?”

“This isn’t really an ‘Ignis’ problem.  I think I like your advice better, this time around.” When he flashed that old, familiar grin, something stirred in your belly with a flutter.

“Well, you’re welcome then.  If you’re still taking advice: catch a shower and a bed before you do anything else.  I gotta go…”

“Right now?  Where to?”

“Lestallum.  Supply run.”

“Oh.” Maybe it was your imagination, but he seemed to deflate a little at this news. “Well… do you know where I can get a phone charger… or make a phone call?  I think I left mine with the guys.”

“They don’t sell stuff like that around here.  You’re better off bumming a ride with me to Lestallum if you want a spare.  Otherwise, I guess you can sweet-talk the motel front desk.  Who are you trying to call?”

“… The Marshal.” He replied dubiously, as if still debating whether or not this was a good idea.

“Oh.” You shrugged, “You could use my phone.  Or the radio.  Hard to say which he’ll answer, but he’s usually good about answering _eventually_.”

“You report to him?   _Directly_?” He gave a little laugh, “Moving up in ranks quick, huh, Nonnie?”

You scoffed, “Seriously?  No.  I report to Prairie, but he’s not shy about jumping on the line if he feels like it.”

“He’s probably not going to like you letting me use official channels for this…”

“So?  He can add it to the list of things he doesn’t like pinned under my name.”

“All right, let’s see it then.”

You passed over your phone first, noticing, strangely, the way his fingertips brushed yours when he took it.  Well all right, maybe you were kind of lonely, and you could appreciate the way he looked.  But it wasn’t anything crazy to get all worked up about.

“We’ve got the same phone,” Was the observation from the big man, “You got a charger?”

“Sure, in the truck, but I’m gonna need it…”

“Worth a try.”  He sighed and gave your phone a long look.

Putting one hand on your hip, you reached out the other to take it back from him again, “Tell you what: I don’t have to leave right away.  You go catch a shower and I’ll let your phone charge while you’re doing it.  Then you can make your call to the Marshal.”

He blinked at you, releasing your phone, then folded his arms, “You keep mentioning how I need a shower…”

“You look like shit, Amicitia.  You smell like it too.”

While he was gone, his phone on the passenger-side of the truck, charging, you gave yourself a good scolding for your behavior.  You didn’t have any business getting excited about Gladiolus Amicitia.  He’d just blown into town, and would blow right back out again like a tumbleweed, off to do some important something with the Marshal.  You didn’t want to deal with the disappointment of learning _again_ that you didn’t _measure up_ to be in his social circle.

When the Shield came back, his phone was still too dead to make a call, so he borrowed yours.  Cor didn’t answer after several attempts, so you suggested he call Ms. Elshett, instead.  You didn’t pay much attention to their conversation until Gladio mentioned meeting with the Marshal here in Old Lestallum.  That’s when you smacked him in the arm, getting his attention.  Scowling, you said, “First of all, he’s not going to come all the way out here.  Not even for you.  It’s too far away from his other objectives.  Second of all, what makes you think I _want_ the Marshal here to disapprove of everything I’m doing and tell me how he’d rather see it done _in person_?”

Muffling the receiver with his hand, Gladio chuckled, grinning again so that the fluttering returned to your belly, “Never managed to get on his good side, huh?”

“He can _keep_ his good side.  I don’t need him to like me as long as he keeps trusting me to do my damn job.”  Really, the moment he tried to send somebody to ‘keep watch’ on you, or something stupid like that, the Marshal would be on _your_ bad side, and you’d make sure he would regret it.

Gladio kept grinning, apparently willing to humor you, “All right, where do you recommend, then?”

“Anywhere else further east.”

Gladio suggested Taelpar Rest Stop over the phone, then wrapped up his phone conversation, asking Monica to pass along the message and have the Marshal call him on his phone when he got it.

Taking your phone back, you announced, “All set up, then?  Guess you’ll want to catch a ride.”

“Yeah.” He sighed, “Otherwise it’ll be a long, long walk.”

He looked toward the dusty buildings and rusted cars on the quiet street, as if assessing them for the likelihood of proving useful in his endeavor.  It gave you a good view of his handsome face in profile, and despite your self-lecture earlier, you caught yourself staring.

Swallowing, then licking your lips, you said, “Get in.”

“What?”

“Nobody’s going to head that way anytime soon.  I’ll drop you off on the way to Lestallum.”  
“Taelpar Rest Stop is several days out of your way, isn’t it?” He frowned at you.  You shrugged.

“Further out of my way if I take you on the way back from Lestallum, or when I come back to find you still here.  It’s fine.  I’ll find something to do out there, or something to pick up to make the trip worth the gas.”

It was a mistake.  It was a mistake because he made a great traveling companion, seeming to know when to initiate a conversation or when to stay quiet and let you enjoy your music and introspection.  It was a mistake because he liked listening to your stories.  It was a mistake because he made your evening stops more efficient and convenient with his camping expertise.  It was a mistake because he made your evening training all the better for having an _excellent_ sparring partner who _already_ knew just how to challenge you, and it shored up your ego to know you could _more_ than keep up with the King’s Shield.  It was a mistake because you thought your campfire cooking was _okay_ , but he insisted that it was pretty _great_.  It was a mistake because he had absolutely _zero_ objections to stopping and exploring strange rock formations, caves, Imperial outposts, or dangerous-looking creatures.  It was a mistake because he made your night hunts against daemons all the more thrilling.  It was a mistake because you were becoming infatuated with his hearty laugh and that devilish grin.  It was a mistake because you were growing accustomed to his warm wit and easy-going charm.  It was a mistake because you were going to miss the way his entire being seemed to relax as he sunk into a book.  It was a mistake because the closer you got to his destination, the less you wanted to arrive.

“You’re a lot more tense than I remember,” Gladio told you thoughtfully over the lip of his bottle.  It was your last night.  Tomorrow, mid-morning, you’d arrive at the rest stop and drop him off  Cor had called on his phone the other day, and the two of them had had a long, somewhat heated discussion about something while you made a racket setting up camp so that you couldn’t eavesdrop.  You shrugged at his comment, ignoring how you’d just gotten up and moved away when he sat next to you– too unbearably close for your rattled nerves.  Ignoring how every time he looked at you, your heart would start to race.  Ignoring how every moment with him seemed to draw you inevitably closer and closer to some unknowable abyss…

You had to escape, but you didn’t want to be away from him, and for maybe the first time in your life, you didn’t know _what to do_ , and you couldn’t decide.

Decisions were _easy_ for you.  You just _did_ what you thought was best, and threw yourself at it with enough force until you succeeded.  Success hardly ever brought negative consequences that _couldn’t_ be shrugged off.  But _this_?  If you threw yourself _toward_ the destination, and then your own in Lestallum, would you ever see Gladio again?  Would you forever be outside his social circle?  Would you never see that grin, or hear that laugh, or marvel up close at the way his muscles rippled like an alpha predator with every subtle movement he made?  And why did that all sound so _unbearable_?

But on the other hand, if you threw yourself with abandon at the abyss…  What then?  What was at the bottom?  How much would it hurt?  Would you just fall forever?  Why was this unknown so _daunting_?

“Hey, Nonnie.  Come sit.” He patted the ground next to him, and you found yourself frowning.

“You’re not that smooth, Amicitia.”

“We can argue that later, come on.”

It wasn’t a good idea… but you also didn’t want to look like you were _concerned_ about being near him, so you went and sat next to him.

“So,” He said casually, leaning back on his hands so that he seemed to ease that much closer to you and slowly swallow you with his size, “I know you’re a big, tough Crownsguard now, but you remember what I said all those years ago?  You’ll take care of yourself?”

“Always do.” You snorted, “Don’t bother getting all protective _now_.”

“Can’t help it.  It’s what I do.  You showed up right when I needed you and… I don’t want to lose you again, y’know?”

He said it so casually, but you heart bottomed out and you were staring at him.

With a little laugh at your expression and a cheeky wink, he went on, “So take care of yourself on the way to Lestallum.  I won’t be there to patch you up.”

“ _Excuse you_ ,” you heard yourself splutter in a mix of shock and rage, “but you haven’t had to ‘patch me up’ ONCE this whole trip!”

“Well that’s because I was here to watch your back–” He continued to laugh.

You slugged him in the shoulder, “ _EXCUSE you_ , I haven’t needed you or _anybody_ to patch me up in years!”

In a blink, he had your wrist in his hand, dragged across his body so that you were sprawled against him, and his lips found yours.  Once again, you were amazed by his strength and the uncanny capacity for gentleness he possessed.  Heat suffused your face, your neck, and your entire torso seemed to almost explode with butterflies.  You were at the very brink of the chasm, and Gladio seemed to be trying to nudge you right in.

“Just say you’ll take care of yourself, okay?” He murmured quietly, smothering any desire to continue protesting by fixing your gaze with his.

“… I’ll take care of myself…” You said dumbly, before shaking your head and withdrawing, “Like I _always_ do!”

* * *

“I _distinctly_ remember,” Gladio raged quietly, “you saying you would _take care of yourself_!  If this is how you ‘always do’, then I’m impressed you’ve survived _this_ long!”

You were admittedly in some pain.  Too much to try and defend yourself.  You had _zero_ regrets, though.  Your _maybe_ -crazy maneuver _might have_ landed you right in the range of the Red Giant’s swing, but it also got you _inside_ it’s guard to destroy it, and you were convinced that was _the more important thing_.

His voice was angry and rough, but his hands were still so gentle as they dumped a potion on you and then searched you for any lasting injury.

“How many times are you going to make me say it, dammit?!  Be more careful, next time!  I don’t want to patch you up again!  You’re lucky I was in the area!”

“Oh, yeah,” You shot back, “really great lecture from the guy who stomped _into Taelpar Crag_ and the _Proving Grounds_.”

He blinked at you, confused, “… How do you know–”

“–It wasn’t that _hard_ to figure out.  You’re not that _mysterious_ , Amicitia.”

“Well… It was fine.  I hardly got–”

“–Don’t even start.  Better look in a _mirror_ before you try and tell me you _didn’t get hurt._ ”  You’d been angry when you found out.  So angry.

“What?  Were you worried about me?”

“You _kissed me_ right before you _left_ to go to the place _where everybody dies_!” You shoved at his chest, but all you got for your efforts was a quiet grunt, “And you call _ME_ reckless?!”

He took your hands in his, and laughed, “Well.  Takes one to know one, I guess.”

Somehow, his laugh warmed you enough that most of your anger melted away.  Other than the scar, he was okay, you reasoned.

“Speaking of knowing one,” He said after a moment of letting this thumbs brush against your battle-roughened knuckles, “we talked about you a little.  The Marshal and I.”

“Oh _great_ …” You groaned.

“He doesn’t dislike you.  He’s just… worried about you.  He says you remind him of a younger him.  ‘All thrust and little foresight’, he said.” Gladio continued, “… And I have it on _good authority_ that he was probably _twice_ as reckless as _both_ of us.  But… look at where he is now.”

It took you a moment, but you managed to regain enough composure to raise both eyebrows and purse your lips, “And _what_ is the motivation behind this roundabout backhanded compliment?  What are you _after_ , Gladio?”

“Well.  Maybe another kiss?”

Huffing, you turned your face aside and told yourself you definitely weren’t blushing, “You’re not _that_ smooth.”

You were _definitely_ blushing.  You knew the moment his lips pressed against the apple of your cheek.  Then the curve of your jaw.  Then the corner of your mouth, and that’s where your resolve weakened at last and you let him capture your lips.

It was hopeless.  You were falling.  You were falling into the chasm, but it was okay.  Gladio was falling with you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got questions? Want to talk about it? [Here's your mic! ](https://mtraki.tumblr.com/ask)


	15. AU Lioness: Caligo Dies Instead of Ariel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prowlingthunder asked:  
> Lioness AU request: Sir Caligo dies of an unfortunate, untimely heart attack on his wedding night, leaving behind one young widow and an estate.
> 
> (The original fic can be found [here! ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13995162/chapters/32226024) )

It was the worst.

Worse than the day her parents told her this was their will, and that in this they would not be defied, for it was her duty and purpose—to bring them, and the kingdom, glory, honor, and wealth.

Worse than the day the barristers and _avvocati_ sit her down and dictate to her the pages and pages of lines which clarify, classify and over-complicate the mandates that would _supposedly_ bring her family, and Accordo ‘glory, honor, and wealth’.  Each line of ink winds round her neck like a noose. They put the pen in her hand and tell her to sign.  There; below the signature of her father, across from the unfamiliar signature of the ill-bred man who has asked for her.  Here was the sum of her worth—the great capital of her bloodline, training, and dignity.  She knows herself to have no other choice.

Worse than the day she leaves Accordo with two servants and too many trunks of clothing and accessories. People gathered on the piers.  The sight of the sunlight gleaming across the water and the city breaks her heart and she would have wept if not for the servants watching.

Worse than the day she steps foot in the city of Gralea—all steel and noise with little beauty to recommend it. All bustling hurry.  The people are fearful.  She can hear their suffering…

Worse than the day she meets the man who bought her with promises to fulfill her parents’ ambition. He is not handsome, nor clever, nor charismatic.  He is a simpering, back-biting creature—forged by this stupid war.  Somehow, she is not surprised.

Worse than the day she is fitted for the structured, layered torment that was to be her bridal gown. Like everything else in this place—like a physical manifestation of the horror of this situation—it weighs down on her body like tons of iron chain.  There is no movement in it, no fluidity.  Only leagues of ribbon, lace, and white gems sewn into the glittering, unforgiving fabric. It is not a dress for a celebration, or dancing.  It is a thing created perfectly for its purpose of imprisonment.

No.   _This_ day crowned them all as the most awful.  This day where she stands before the Officiant, the witnesses, and the gathered congregations of well-wishers and court gossips.  This day where the words are spoken by each principle person and her tongue and lips betray her for the very last time— _she swears it will be the very last time_ —and she accepts the price of duty and swears herself to Caligo Ulldor.  This day when she learns already that she hates the way he speaks, and fidgets his hands.  Even the overbearing way he _breathes_ disgusts her.  It is torture to stand at his side, and an agony to feel his hands trap hers.  His kiss is wet and warm and passionless—it reminds her of the smell of the barracks, and it only her pride and poise that keeps her stomach from turning so hard that she might retch.  They are watching: her parents, the Officiant, Ulldor, the gossips, and that enigmatic stranger who watches her with amber eyes and a lazy smirk.

The stranger unnerves and intrigues her.  He cheers loudly—perhaps loudest of all—at the culmination of the ceremony, but she is certain he has no more love for her husband than she.  He takes her hand and doffs his hat, and something about his touch causes her to squirm and recoil inside until all she wants is to yank her hand away or _cut it off_ , but she is too-well bred for either, and so she smiles, thanks him for his well-wishes, and commits his name and rank to memory: _Ardyn Izunia, Chancellor of Niflheim_.

The anguish of the day leads into the evening for the short reception.  Here she learns of Ulldor’s great arrogance and cruelty.  He keeps her firmly at his side with a harsh, merciless hand at her arm, and when her fury demands she make mention of it in a private moment, his hand finds her throat, and he tells her how ‘no mewling Altissian _purg_ would talk back to him’.

She had never been spoken to or handled in such a way ever before.

So it was with no apology, and perhaps even _less_ grace than initially intended, that when he brought her to their conjugal chamber and commanded her to undress herself, that she laughed at him.

“I have signed and sworn. I know that one day I shall have to bear your heir…”

“What is this?!” He demanded, his face reddening, as if his cups at the reception were now catching up to him. “Strip, wench, or I’ll do it!”

“But before I do, I want you to understand that I do not belong to you—”

“—Of _course_ you do—”

“—I belong to myself, pig.”

“ _What_ did—”

“—I chose for myself a liaison that pleased me so that you would not so arrogantly think yourself the master of my flesh.”

Ulldor was white with rage, and he swayed violently on his feet while he sputtered, lips glistening with spit.

She laughed at him, the sight of his discomfiture a relief beyond measure after the torment of her recent days, “I laid with a young man from Lucis, a vanguard of their Prince.  It was to him I gave the honor, for you could never deserve it.”

He threw himself at her. In the cage of her dress, she could not get out of the way.  Together they crashed to the ground, he on top of her.  With hooked fingers at both hands he tore at her gown and wrenched at the overcomplicated coif of her hair.  She shrieked and fought him with hooked fingers of her own, tearing at his throat and face.  He made loud, grunting noises.  As his hands wriggled through her skirts and he endeavored to hold her down with his mass, he made a strange burping sound.

Then he said, “Hnnn…nnnnk…”

Then he stopped moving.

Ariel did not.  Though he was no longer struggling, he was heavy and it was a trial to crawl out from under him while in her monstrosity of a wedding gown.

“H-how _dare_ you!” She accused in fury, wanting nothing more than to kick him as hard as she could.  The only reason she did not, was because the faint scent of piss came to her nose.  It was at _that_ moment she suspected he might be dead.  But how?  She surely hadn’t scored a lethal blow with her hands…

“My, my… what a ghastly sight!” The Chancellor said as he came through the door.

* * *

 

_(So this is bad for Ariel, because in my mind, Niflheim law is not terribly friendly to women.  If Caligo has any sons, brothers, nephews, uncles or cousins, they’ll likely inherit before Ariel does—especially since she’s a foreign noblewoman.  But her FIRST hurdle is to avoid being incriminated for Ulldor’s death.  Sure, an autopsy should prove that he died of a heart attack, but why would the court go with straight neutral facts when a twisted story could get more out of Accordo?  Ardyn will offer her his aid—because of course he will—and she’ll have little choice but to accept it.  He probably will even do a good job championing her.  But the court and her parents are going to want her to remarry into the Empire—whether she inherits from Ulldor or not…  Ardyn probably wants to keep her around, too.  He might even marry her to do it.  Someone with a ‘curse’ like hers?  Could be useful~ )_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got questions? Want to talk about it? [Here's your mic! ](https://mtraki.tumblr.com/ask)


	16. AU Lioness: Ariel Keeps Prompto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prowlingthunder asked:  
> Lioness AU prompt: The first time the hunters notice the lion has a cub.
> 
> ((I'm toying with the idea of doing more of this... Because who DOESN'T want a feral little Prom-pom??))

“You are David Auburnbrie?” The abrupt voice behind him interrupted what he’d been about to say to Chris. Before turning, he replied, “That’s me. Most people call me ‘Dave’ though…”

“I want to be a Hunter. You can officiate this.”

The Hunters took a good look at the woman.  She was frail with hair cropped short and uneven, and the front half almost looked burnt. Gold eyes bore into him, daring him to deny her request, and the imperious tilt of her jaw informed him she wouldn’t accept ‘no’ for an answer.  Though filthy from her travels, and desperately underweight, she was beautiful.  So beautiful it took him a moment to notice that the bundle in her arms was a baby.

Chris shifted uncomfortably beside him, and David was slow to respond, which only made the woman glare harder and open her mouth as if to repeat herself.

“…You have a baby.” David pointed out.  The words sounded stupid to his own ears, but this woman was out here _carrying_ this baby, instead of leaving it at home with a caretaker…

“For what _other_ reason do you suppose I might need _coin_?” She scoffed, “Everything else _I_ might need I can forage or kill.”

“But you _can_ kill?” Dave wondered aloud, noting that though thin, her figure was lined with wiry muscle.  More impressively, she’d crept up on him and Chris with a _baby_ without their noticing until she spoke up.

“Yes.” She shrugged, “Though I am still learning how to hunt the beasts here.”

“Where are you from?”

She gave him a sharp, long look, her strange golden eyes gleaming with something fierce and wild, “… There are more unforgiving deserts than this one.”

There weren’t _many_ places like that in the world, Dave figured. “What are you going to do with the kid?”

“I will think of something,” Was her even reply.

“It’s not as easy as just asking,” Chris spoke up, “It’s not: ‘I want to bee a Hunter’ ‘ok, bam, you’re a hunter’, miss.”

“Test me, then.” She hissed back, “Or whatever must be done, but it must be done _swiftly_ , otherwise, I will be forced to find less palatable ways to acquire _coin_.”

The Hunters did not doubt she meant it.  They _wondered,_ but did not _ask,_ why she couldn’t find more _usual_ work somewhere.

“Well… I guess there’s something you could cut your teeth on…”

**

Two days later, she returned, hands and arms stained, with the baby strapped to her back with a swatch of cloth—was that an Imperial banner?—carrying her bloodied trophies. It wasn’t _neat_ work, but he couldn’t deny her efficiency.

“Alright,” He folded his arms, “What name do I put on the tags?”

“Do you _need_ a name?” She hesitated, and he watched her hackles raise.  The baby fussed on her back, and Dave noticed for the first time that it had _blond_ hair, while hers was mostly dark.

“Gotta identify who they belong to, don’t we?  That’s the point, yeah?”

“… Would ‘A’ suffice?”

“… Are you in some kind of trouble?”

She grinned, flashing white teeth, “Not yet.”

When he hesitated, she shook her head, “I am not including you in anything illegal, Mr. Auburnbrie. Any consequences for my actions, past or future, will be reaped only by myself.  I need coin, not protection.”

“But you don’t want to tell me your name…”

“Someday.  But not this day.”

“This is sounding very suspicious…”

“I understand.” But she did not explain.  Dave shrugged and relented, wondering if maybe this woman had escaped an abusive husband ( _something_ had happened to her for her hair to look like that, and for her to be so feral and untrusting, and have no money to feed her baby) or something equally distasteful.  It wasn’t for him to judge.

He had the tags made under the name ‘A’.

**

“Dave.”

Looking up from his letter, the Hunter watched the Crownsguard Marshal approach.  He’d met Cor years before, and easily recognized that gleam of fury in the blue eyes.  Age and responsibility had changed him, though, and his strong feelings no longer overflowed into every facet of his being.  His voice, face, and posture remained steady and unruffled.  He was filthy though, and Dave wondered what he might be _doing_ out here.  Didn’t he work almost exclusively in the Crown City these days? “Look at what the coeurls coughed up…”

Grunting, scuffing the red soles of his boots on the wood of the porch as he came to a stop in front of the Hunter, the man in black said, “I’m looking for a young woman.  Thin build, short dark hair, light around her face.  Gold eyes.  Named Ariel.  She may have been carrying a baby.  Boy. Blond.”

Sighing, Dave rubbed the back of his neck, “… What kind of trouble is she in?”

“So you’ve seen her.” It was a bald statement, but the Hunter thought Cor was _relieved.  Not_ just because he had confirmation that he was on his quarry’s trail, but that he had confirmation that she was still _alive_.  Maybe even _safe_.  Like he was _worried_ about her.

“Gave her some tags two days ago.”

“She pick up a contract?”

“Not that she told me. You know who to ask about jobs, Cor.” Folding his letter, Dave gave the Marshal a look, “So.  What kind of trouble?”

“… She’s currently a Ward of the Crown.  I need to know where she is.” Cor sighed, “… And that child…”

Dave watched Cor’s face, and the tension in his hands, then said, “Is he hers?   _Yours_?”

With a wry laugh, the Marshal replied, “I doubt anybody will convince her at _this point_ that he’s _not_ hers.”

“She doesn’t seem to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“No.  She doesn’t.”

“Good hunting, Cor.”

“Thanks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got questions? Want to talk about it? [Here's your mic! ](https://mtraki.tumblr.com/ask)


	17. 6 Headcanons for Gilgamesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prowlingthunder asked:  
> Headcanon Request: 6 Headcanons for Gilgamesh

_Hmmm… I don’t have many established headcanons for our Blademaster.  The game just kind of used him as a set piece or a prop.  We don’t learn a lot about him or his real impact on the world outside of being one more ancient big bad to conquer– and that it apparently shaped Cor’s history, but even that isn’t fleshed out.  As you know, my dear, I prefer building on more original materials than blank canvases.  So here are some headcanon questions I have and my thoughts on them!_

## 1\. Gilgamesh and Ardyn?

It’s never explicitly mentioned that Gilgamesh was Ardyn’s Shield.  We assume so, because he was the Shield of the Founder King and Ardyn is the Founder King– right?  I’m not entirely convinced, though.  Ardyn was erased from history.  If anyone is remembered as the “Founder King” it would be Somnus.  Ignis mentions Ardyn as the Founder King, but Ignis would also have special access to records that managed to escape destruction.  Gilgamesh is also zealously loyal to the Lucis Caelum line and its prophecy– which Ardyn is the antagonist of.

He _might_ have been Ardyn’s Shield, before Ardyn was stripped of power and cast aside by man and god alike…  But that leads me to my next question and theory!

## 2\. Haunting Taelpar Crag?

The wiki suggest that Gilgamesh may have been involved in the War of the Astrals because he’s there in the wound in the Star that was caused in all the fighting.  Yeah maybe.  But why is he a ghost?  Most ghosts you fight are daemons, and as far as anybody can tell, Gilgamesh is not a daemon.  He’s a powerful spirit.  Fine.  Cool.  Why?  Why doesn’t he get to ascend into ever after?  Or is that something I’ve missed concerning the afterlife in all of FFXV? (Let me know!)  I think there are three alternatives here:

\- We could go traditional “unfinished business”.  His zeal for Lucis Caelum keeps him around until the King of Kings does his prophecy thing.  This is probably what was intended, but honestly, it makes me want to throw up.  I’m so sick of how wanky this story is about that family…

\- I better like the _punishment_ alternative.  Angelgard is rumored to be where Ramuh passes judgement.  If Gilgamesh was Ardyn’s Shield, and stayed loyal to Ardyn instead of Lucis Caelum and the prophecy… perhaps he was punished for it.  Now he serves his penance to prepare the Shield of the King of Kings to be a proper fit for the prophecy, like he _wasn’t_.  Maybe THAT’S why he’s so overzealous and blood-thirsty about it! (And maybe that’s why he spared Cor: because Cor was there to be more useful to Lucis Caelum)  Again: super wanky, but I can only do so much without deviating from canon entirely…

\- Adding on to above: maybe the opposite happened.  Maybe Ardyn was betrayed by Gilgamesh.  Nothing happened to him in life, but Ramuh was sure to judge and curse him in death for his treachery.  “You are so eager to serve Lucis Caelum?  Then see your ‘good work’ through to the end.” sort of deal…  Justice is justice, after all, and betraying a King of Lucis Caelum (even a blacklisted one) probably doesn’t come cheap.

## 3.  Speaking of Ghosts…

He’s got an army of ghosts who serve him.  Cor says they’re the spirits of those who dared the Tempering Grounds and died.  I usually don’t like to contradict the Marshal, but… how does he know that?  Did somebody tell him?  Does he recognize some of the corpses?  For argument’s sake, let’s just assume he’s right.  Well then that means…

## 4\. Gilgamesh is a Wizard?

Or something.  Not only is HE a ghost, but he can a) ensure everybody he kills is trapped with him as a ghost and b) they turn from trying to defeat him to absolute loyalty to him.  So either Gilgamesh himself has some powerful magic or…

## 5\. The Proving Grounds are Cursed?

The only _people_ with magic, canonically, are the Oracles and Lucis Caelums.  So unless we delve into a mess where the Blademaster was one of _them_ , it’s more likely that something is magic about the _area_.  It’s established that elemental/magic power can be pulled out of the ground.  Perhaps that place is a locus for pooling magic, manifesting itself as a curse, so that everyone who dies there is trapped?  Maybe that’s how Gilgamesh got there too?

## 6.  Gilgamesh and Cor

It’s very clear that the encounter with Gilgamesh had a very profound impact on Cor’s life– not just the cool (but shameful) moniker, but apparently the encounter humbled the hot-headed youth into the pragmatic man we know in the game.  What was also very clear to _me_ , however, was that Cor had a very profound impact on Gilgamesh– and I don’t just mean the arm and sword thing.  As Gladio works his way through the ruins, the spirits throwing jabs and threats, they mention Cor several times.  They _sound_ like they were impressed.  Cor even makes a self-deprecating joke about it.  I don’t think the ghosts recognize him at all, but that makes sense with ghosts anyway.  Still, _somebody_ came through here and impressed them enough for them to remember somebody did it, even though there are corpses and swords all through that chamber you fight Gilgamesh in– so Cor wasn’t the first/only person to make it that far.  But he was the _most memorable_.

Cor also has the means of opening the chamber.  I don’t know if that was supposed to be something significant, but it _sure looked_ significant and ritualistic, especially if you consider that Cor may have taken that sword from the Proving Grounds after losing his.  Even if he didn’t, I think it’s clear that Gilgamesh intended for Cor to _come back_.

But Cor was different, now, changed by his experiences.  He had no intentions of facing Gilgamesh again, and I think he damn well knew if he followed Gladio into that chamber, it wouldn’t have been about Gladio anymore.  Gilgamesh would recognize him, even if the other ghosts didn’t, and it would be all about Cor.  This is why Cor didn’t help with any of the trials.  Not to test Gladio, not because the ritual required it, but because he wanted to make absolutely clear to everything in these caverns that this wasn’t about _him_ this time.

And I think Gilgamesh was honestly very disappointed.  This might just be me meta-ing again, but the resolution of the fight was really awkward and lame.  The answer to Gladio’s problem was just to believe in his own strength after all.  There you go.  You win.

Lame.  Especially considering all the people who died, who likely thought the same thing “Just believe in my strength!”  Even hot-headed young Cor probably did!

So it seems to me that Gilgamesh just kind of… phoned it in.  “Yeah, I guess that other guy really isn’t coming in… What a shame… Alright, fine, you can win… Yep, yep, whatever– Oh I know!  I’ll give you this sword that used to be his and maybe he’ll come in here and face me at last! … No?  Worth a shot…”

_The Immortal has many fanboys.  I headcanon that Gilgamesh might be the original. ;)_


	18. 6 Headcanons for Accordo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prowlingthunder asked:  
> Headcanon Request: 6 Headcanons of Accordo.

## 1\. ‘Accor’

Real simple, here, but I call the native language ‘Accor’.  I’m considering calling the people ‘Accordaen’ (like ‘Tenebraen’ as opposed to ‘Galahdian’ or ‘Lucian’)

… As tempting as it is to call them ‘Accordian’ for lulz… I just cant take it seriously. XD

## 2\. Leviathan

So I headcanon that Accordo was formed from refugees of Solheim sailing away during the fall– mostly wealthy artisans and merchants.  They escaped to the sea and threw themselves upon the mercy of the Hydraen.

She was, decidedly, less than merciful.

Still, enough of them survived and the waters calmed, and the people eventually found themselves blessed with the vast bounty the sea had to offer.  You’ll see the multi-identity effigies of Leviathan all around the city– particularly the beautiful humanoid goddess.  Leviathan is revered as the _matron_ of Accordo, and especially Altissia.  Different parts of Accordo have their tailored rituals and myths about her, but in general, she’s regarded as the very. temperamental. mom. who is taking a long, well-deserved, nap, and _should not be woken prematurely._

But they definitely also acknowledge that she also protects and provides, even in her slumber.

## 3\. Altissia is Not Accordo

The game only really shows us Altissia, but Accordo is a rather large archipelago.  It’s not like Lucis, where everything else belongs to the Empire (though there are probably a few bases here and there on the islands, most-likely bare-bones set-ups for inter-continental troop movements and airship repairs).  There are a number of fishing and agricultural villages, as well as bigger hub towns for trade on the way to the big capital.  Most of these villages are owned and outsourced by wealthy merchants.  There are likely a number of rich marble and gem quarries in the larger islands which are a huge source of trade and wealth.

The local culture of all these places is somewhat different, but there is a very sharp contrast between Altissians and other Accordaens, especially in consideration of tourists.  Altissia obviously has a huge tourism industry, but the more rural areas and smaller towns don’t appreciate foreigners poking around– after all, they still remember the days when soldiers rampaged through their homes…

There is some bitterness when it comes to governance as well, or there _would be_ , if not for the way power is arranged in the archipelago.  Altissia may not be the voice of all of Accordo, but the _Market of Tides_ is.

## 4\. Market of Tides

When these rich artisans and merchants fled, they took everything they could.  But obviously everyone didn’t have everything they needed.  While searching for a safe harbor, ships traded goods in a bartering system– if goods were available for equal trade– or on an honor system if they weren’t.  For example: a carpenter might need to feed his family, but he has no skill in ship repair, and so instead swears to help build another’s house once things get situated.  These deals were verbal contracts, and taken very seriously, establishing a business relationship of trust and eventually loyalty.  This system began the basic structure of governance that would transfer rather seamlessly onto Accordo.  The wealth and influence were fluid things out on the sea, and those who _had_ racked up favors and loyalty with those who _had not_.  There was a brief period of history where the _most_ influential and wealthiest family became royalty, but such an arrangement was eventually found distasteful after coming under Imperial control.

The government officially established afterwards– the Parliament with it’s First Secretary– is not the Market of Tides.  However, members of Parliament are often players in the MoT.

The Market of Tides controls wealth and influence through unofficial, often clandestine means, to support their supporters and increase their influence.  The Market of Tides is basically the dramatic but quiet chess game of various merchant dynastic families for honor and renown (those who play for wealth are not favored and generally do not last long).  It is a dangerous and sometimes bloody chess game, especially if verbal or written contracts are not honored– and such debts and promises are often inherited through generations– or rival groups feel drastic actions are required.  Assassinations amongst the wealthy and influential are common.  Most organized crime is theorized to be connected directly to the MoT.

The MoT is part of Accordaen heritage, and ultimately seen as a positive thing, though it is not spoken of openly.  The system provides overhead and protection for budding businesses and balances the trade market to keep competition lively.  The Market of Tides also often provides for those who are needy– because of this, there are very few who are afflicted with homelessness, food insecurity, or unemployment. 

## 5\. Lovers Not Fighters

On the whole, Accordaen culture and philosophy do not embrace violence or martial might.  Disagreements are better settled through trade– even if they originated in trade!  Criminal murder is very rare, as the Market of Tides will always see such a slight answered harshly. (MoT assassinations are not considered criminal murder unless someone other than the target is killed.)

Especially in the company of foreigners, an Accordaen is more likely to facilitate compromise, and make excellent mediators in disputes, ensuring that a fair trade of services or goods takes place.  History has demonstrated time and again that it benefits them to do everything they can to ingratiate themselves to others and make friends instead of enemies.

## 6\. Little Cultural Things I’ve Invented

  * the ‘Altissian Kiss’
    * I dunno.  I thought it was clever or something.  Y’know how tongue-kissing is called ‘French Kissing’ by people?  That’s the kind of thing I was going for.  I’ve been asked exactly _what_ an Altissian Kiss _is,_ and I’m not sure (LET ME KNOW IF YOU HAVE SUGGESTIONS! :D) But I _can_ tell you that the stereotype exists that Accordaens, and _especially_ Altissians, are super passionate lovers and great kissers.  Altissian tourist shops have embraced this and feature novelty t-shirts and other items that state boldly ‘ALTISSIANS DO IT BETTER’.
    * They also have a word ‘ _bacia’_ which is used as a insult that translates into ‘kiss off’ which is used like ‘F*** off’.  Memorabilia with either translation of this are also popular.
    * Kissing and PDA are not huge deals in Altissia, though somewhat more frowned on in more conservative rural villages.

  * “Never try to swindle an Altissian.” (This also applies to other Accordaens)

    * Being the descendants of merchants, it’s really difficult to pull one over on someone from the archipelago concerning a business arrangement.  They seem to have a good eye and ear for dishonest business and blackmail.  Trying will either get you laughed at or in serious trouble.  If you do manage to pull it off, watch out– they’ll find a way to ruin you and your entire family while coming out looking completely innocent.

    * On the flip-side, an Accordaen can usually be honor-bound by their word– unless they’ve made a clever loop-hole for themselves, or the other person has broken their end of the deal.





	19. Comfort for PT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PT asked for a comfort fic...

“… I was right,” You finished, “and she didn’t listen to me.”

He didn’t have any smart quips.  He simply nodded, a shadow of storm in his eyes and the ghost of a clenched-teeth scowl on his lips as he closed the distance between you.  With one hand, he indicated an offered embrace, and when you stepped forward to accept, he nudged you against him, and you buried your face in his chest while his strong arms circled you.

“She didn’t listen and so she didn’t help the way we needed it…” You mumbled into the worn softness of his faded tshirt.

“I know.  It’s not right,” Was his quiet reply, his emotions catching in his throat.  He held you close a long while, allowing you to steady your breathing and feel secure while you did it, his warmth and strength sliding slowly into you.

Then he cleared his throat and murmured softly somewhere above the crown of your head, “… You could always tell me her name and we could go burn her office down…”

“Nyx…”

“Just a suggestion.”

You tried very hard not to let him feel the small smile pressed against his chest while his hand lightly rubbed along the length of your spine.


	20. Cor x Prompto: Prompto's Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for Prompto's birthday, 2018! Builds off the ProCor ficlets.  
> Note: (I must be some kind of monster for writing a sad story for his birthday D: )

Prompto woke up alone.  There wasn’t anything uncanny about it, but the realization was a heavy one this morning.  His birthday morning.

_Again.  Always._

Cor usually woke up a little before him, so waking up alone in the camp wasn’t a surprise.  Nothing had been said about the occasion (well it usually wasn’t an occasion anyway) so there was no reason to expect anything different.  Lying there on his back, looking up at the nylon ceiling of the tent they shared, the twenty-one occasions weighed him down.

He knew it really shouldn’t.  Most every other morning of his twenty-one years had been spent alone, too.  He should be used to it– and he _was_.

It was just..

… he knew.

He knew it wasn’t like this for most other people– not necessarily the very-specific ‘waking up alone’ part.  A lot of people woke up alone on their birthdays, and that was fine.  Most people didn’t spend every day _including_ their birthday, as far back as they could _remember_ , alone, though.  He knew friends and parents wished happy birthday and made cake and gave presents or went on trips.  He knew that, but it wasn’t until the last few years he’d experienced it himself.

Once Noct got around to learning _when_ his birthday was, he’d been great.  He’d go out of his way to make sure _something_ was organized to make a real occasion of the day, and Prompto was grateful– really, _truly_ grateful for his friends for it.

One time, a few years ago, Noct had tried to arrange a sleepover party.  It would have been the first time Prompto didn’t wake up alone on his birthday.  But things fell through after some major protests and a temporary curfew was instilled.  They’d still had a great time during the day– especially getting the photo of Noct warping a slice of cake into Gladio’s face.  Prompto hadn’t even really thought about what he might have missed out on with the sleepover cancelled.  He’d even managed to not feel so isolated when he had to go back to his little house alone.

But that wasn’t going to happen this time.  His friends had gone on without him.

It upset him, and he hated that it upset him, that with everything going on he could be so childish as to be upset that his friends weren’t going to be around for his birthday.  He should be _glad_ he had even made it this long with the world the way it was now, to even _have_ a twenty-first birthday.  A lot of people weren’t going to.

But…

He spent a long time looking at the ceiling and feeling the full weight of his loneliness.  Which was dumb– he wasn’t alone.  If he just went out of the tent, he’d find Cor.  Despite everything, and the potential for how much Prompto could screw up, Cor was still there.

Except he wasn’t.

When he finally managed to drag himself out of the tent into the morning sunshine, Cor was nowhere to be seen.  Disappointment, not panic, was the first thing to settle in his guts.  He’d been looking forward to the opportunity to flip the switch inside and be… _okay_.  To go on with the day like nothing was unusual and twenty-one years of self-doubt and crushing loneliness weren’t threatening to push him over some invisible cliffside into an uncontrollable downward spiral into an unfathomable place.  Faking it sometimes _did_ make it.  At least enough to get through the day.

“Ookay…” He huffed out a breath, “he’ll be back in a minute.”

But he wasn’t.  Prompto had packed up everything and still the Marshal hadn’t come back.

That was when the panic spiked through.  His first thought was not that something had happened to Cor– it was _Cor the Immortal_ , after all– but that Cor wasn’t coming back.

That Cor had left him behind.

“No.  He… he wouldn’t.”

Shouldering the pack, the blond left the haven and went looking.  After a ten minute search of the surrounding area, he returned, just in case the Marshal had come back and they had just _missed_ each other.

Nobody was there.

“Shit…”

Fumbling with his phone– and dropping it _twice_ on the hard stone– he discovered he had no signal to call or text.  So he headed for the road.  They’d had a car, about a week ago, but it was a salvage and had broken down.  After a resigned call to Hammerhead, Cor had accepted that there probably wasn’t any bringing it back.  Prompto had been thrilled to learn that the alternative was chocobos.  He’d been even more thrilled to learn that Cor _absolutely_ had the eternal patience to allow him over five-hundred photos of nothing but chocobos over two days, and had even offered twice to take photos of him with the chocobos.

But the best part had been when he hadn’t said a _word_ about the ‘not so secret’ photo Prompto had taken of his mount nibbling gently at the lapel of his jacket while he’d started unbuckling the girth after a long day of riding.  The blond had spent many private hours staring at that photo, admiring the hint of softness in Cor’s handsome face and the relaxation and trust in the chocobo’s eyes.

“… It’s a mistake.” He told himself with a fierce kind of desperation, “… He… he wouldn’t just… _ditch_ me.”

After all, he’d made the fluttering, foolishly excitable things in Prompto’s guts _real_.  He’d said he… that he _wanted_ to be with him.  Like two people who really cared about each other.

_Right?_

Except… except maybe he… maybe he got it _wrong_?  Or maybe Cor had… changed his mind?

And why _wouldn_ ’t he change his mind?  He knew he’d been kind of _low energy_ the past couple days, trying to handle the coming disappointment that would topple on him on his birthday like a wall of darkness.  Seeing it loom closer and closer had just… sucked all the life out of him.  He’d probably been a drag.  No doubt Cor wanted a break from his moodiness–

“Prompto!  Hey!”

It was Cindy, leaning on the front fender of her truck, waving at him.  Her appearance here was such an unanticipated shock that Prompto could only _stare_ in response.

“Well come _on_ , birthday boy!  Daylight’s wasting!”

Numbly stumbling over toward her, he managed to ask, “W-where are we going?”

“It was decided that you deserved a little reward for all your hard work roughin’ it out here with Uncle Leonis, so we thought you ought to have a burger.  Get in.”

“‘Decided’?” He sputtered, “‘Uncle Leoni–’ do you know where Cor is?  Wait, a burger?”

“Slow down, I’ll explain on the way.  We’ve got a ways to go.  Had to agree on a location where everyone could meet up, y’know?”

“E-e-everyone?!”

 

“So,” The beautiful mechanic began cheerily three minutes further down the road, raising her voice over the roar of the big engine, “we’re off to the Crow’s Nest.  Some friends are waitin’ for ya there.  Uncle Leonis called me yesterday to make sure you made it there.  I thought he’d be with ya, but I’m sure he’s got something else planned.”

“… Planned… for me?”

“Guess so.  This whole thing might be his plan, y’know.”

Prompto frowned at her, “But he doesn’t know today is my birthday…”

“Ys sure about that?”

“How could he?  I didn’t… I never…”

Laughing, Cindy spared a hand to reach over and pat him on the shoulder, “He knows a lot of things he don’t let on about.”

With his heart racing, Prompto looked down at his hands, “Is… Are… are Noctis and the others going to be there?”

“I dunno.”

He didn’t know whether he wanted them to be or not.  There were too many feelings… and this was all such a shock.

Cor knew about his birthday?  Cor had… planned something for his birthday?!  Somehow behind his back while right in front of him?  Did…

… Would Cor do something like that?  For him?

It just… didn’t seem right.  It didn’t seem like the right answer.  Cor didn’t like making a fuss about things unrelated to the mission, and circumstances being what they were, there wasn’t much in the way of time or energy to… make a fuss over something as silly as a birthday.

Cindy kept his mind busy though, chatting away about some of the new modification kits she had planned– a car that could transform into a jet!– and the latest news out of the Hammerhead, which continued to be one of the bigger hubs in Leide.

Prompto wondered in a private part of his mind if Cor had arranged this on purpose.  He wondered if Cor knew about his lingering crush on the mechanic and was…

… trying to play matchmaker…?

It didn’t seem likely.  It didn’t seem like a ‘Cor’ thing to do.

Then again… Cor had been doing a lot of things he hadn’t expected.  Like not ditching him before now.  Like not reacting with revulsion after finding out Prompto had it bad for him.  Like telling him he wanted to…

He didn’t know how to feel if it were true.  If Cor accepted that Prompto liked him… was he trying to distract him with Cindy?  Did he think his feelings were so… fickle?  Or had he– like he figured before– just changed his mind?

But these were quiet thoughts, and he stayed focused on how glad he was to see her, and not be alone.  Grateful to have someone around so he could turn on the switch inside.  His misgivings could be predominantly forgotten, even.  This was turning out to be a pretty decent birthday after all!

He managed to convince himself right until he realized they were going to Longwythe, where Noctis, Gladio and Ignis had decided it better to leave him behind.  Then his heart stopped and he was convinced he was going to puke all over Cindy’s passenger seat.  He realized two things at that moment: first, Noctis and the others were definitely not going to be here.  Secondly, Cor had not organized this.

Which meant he was still unaccounted for.  Still _gone_.

If Cindy noticed his sudden gut-clenched paralysis, she made no indication and instead pulled off to the side of the road, just inside the reach of the big lights that would ward off any daemons.  Sunset was still some few hours off, but Cindy liked to be cautious about her vehicles.  Prompto didn’t remember getting out of the cab or crossing the stretch of hard packed ground to the door of the diner, so he must have moved via teleportation, a rip in the space-time continuum formed by the dysfunction of the mirror of his face, reflecting Cindy’s bright smile, and the hollow, howling, frozen void in his chest that somehow sent lightning through his nerves.

The brightly ringing bell of the swinging door preceded the hearty cheers of “Happy Birthday!” from three full booths of hunters and a few others he’d met since leaving Insomnia.  Some he’d met as acquaintances of the Marshal’s, some had been strangers to them both.  They were good people, all of them, but a step removed from ‘friends’.

Or maybe Noctis, Ignis, and Gladio were a step _beyond_ ‘friends’, somewhere closer to _family_ … And maybe that was why he couldn’t quite move on from the fact that they had left him.

 _Here_.

Maybe Cor was somewhere around there too, and that was why he couldn’t really convince himself that he hadn’t done the same thing.

Maybe that was why he was standing there, laughing and grinning, heart stampeding toward his toes… and clenching his eyes against hot tears because it seemed he was somebody so unworthy of being loved, that the people he’d hoped would do it had abandoned him and the task _three times._

… Did other people see the act of being loved a _task_?  An _imposition_ on others?

He had to stop.  He had to stop thinking this way right now.  These were good people and it was ungrateful of him to feel this way when they’d all gone out of their ways to set this up.  The people he loved didn’t want to celebrate with him, but _these_ people did, and that…

… That was pretty great.

That was really good.

He could ignore how this hole in him was only getting bigger and rawer, and have fun with them.

“Geez, you guys!  You really know how to surprise a guy!”

They ordered and ate and laughed.  Brayce said he’d lost weight since the last time he’d seen him, and Margo complained that the Marshal set inhuman expectations for the people travelling with him– she knew from a brief experience.  There wasn’t a cake, but there were milkshakes that were cake-batter flavored, and Prompto proclaimed they were _better_ than cake.  They told stories and took photos.  Then Shawn and Kacie brought out two big unmarked bottles of clear spirits– and they were all politely but firmly told to leave by the owner.  Though he did give them a stack of paper cups with a wink.

Full of trepidation, but still throwing himself willfully into the spirit of the occasion, Prompto left with the small crowd of merrymakers, spilling out into the parking lot.  There, he was informed that three rooms had been reserved in the motel for everyone, so he didn’t have to worry about people trying to drive home after drinking.

And the drinking _did_ happen.  Cups were passed out amidst jokes and laughter and the spirits tasted like fire and ginger.  When asked where it came from, the vague answer was that it’d been _made_.  It was too harsh for Prompto’s taste, but he drank down every cup he was poured in the hopes that it would silence the nagging worries about the others leaving him, about what that would mean for tomorrow, and that all of his insecurities and inability to measure up were somehow showing on his face.

But also… because it tasted like something Cor would drink… sort of.  Something Cor might drink in the desert while watching the world end.

If there wasn’t any more good scotch left.

It was when he started to wonder if it tasted like _kissing Cor_ _felt_ , that he knew he was drunk.  When he kept laughing and strangely felt choked up inside like he needed to sob hysterics instead.  He was glad.

He was really so _so_ glad for these wonderful people and their terrible desert moonshine.

A couple of them rambled back into the diner to order another few more plates of fries and play too many rounds of Justice Monsters Five.  Prompto made a new high-score without really knowing how he’d done it.  When they stumbled out into the parking lot again, Brayce’s arm was slung around his neck, pulling him into his side.  He was warm.  It was nice.

Then he realized it was dark out.  Night had come at some point.  Cindy and a few others who’d come long distances clapped his back or gave him hugs and confessed it was time to get some shut-eye.  They said they were glad they’d come and hoped he’d had fun.

He had, he swore he had.  This was the _best birthday_ he could have asked for.  Thank you, so much, _thank you_.

There was a hole in his chest, but at least he wasn’t _alone_.  Thank you.

Cindy scolded Brayce to not let him drink too much.  Brayce told her Prompto would be fine.  Prompto agreed that he _was_ fine.

He had another cup.  Maybe more than one.  It was hard to remember.  Brayce was warm and it felt good to be tucked against his side with the weight of his arm around his neck, still.  The bright lights had soft, wide halos around them, and the headlights of the cars pulling in and out wove arcing, skittering patterns across the darkness.  He wished he could photograph it, but every attempt came out wrong.

There were _so many photos_.  He’d have a week’s worth of reviewing to do.

Brayce was leading him toward the motel room doors with a sort of directness that gave Prompto the sense that something other than sleep might happen, and he was busy trying to gather enough shards of his feelings together to decide how he _felt_ about that when a voice cut through the parking lot.

“Looks like my timing is impeccable, as usual.”  It was biting, delivered in a soul-crushing deadpan, and Prompto gasped and choked, nearly tripping over his own feet to turn and face the speaker.

“Cor?”

He was there, crossing from the darkness, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, giving vague gestures of greeting to the other party attendees who greeted him with the other.  But his eyes stayed fixed on Prompto.

Until they flicked to Brayce, whose arm around Prompto’s neck was starting to feel more like a _restriction_ than a casual embrace.  But Brayce laughed and told the Marshal that he ought to grab a cup.

“Good call,” Was the reply, and he plucked the cup out of Prompto’s hand and replaced it with a rectangular package wrapped unattractively in newspaper, “Sorry I’m late, Prompto.  Happy birthday.”

It was at that moment Prompto realized he was _really there_ , and took a good look at him, shock giving him a temporary clear-sightedness.  He was filthy– filthier than usual– sweat-soaked, and breathing hard in a way that made the blond wonder if he’d _run across the whole desert of Leide_ all day.

‘ _I’m so glad you came at all!_ ’ He wanted to say, but instead, “… You… Is… is this… where you were?” was what he mumbled loudly, like an ungrateful brat.

Like a loser.

Like a stupid kid who didn’t _deserve_ to be loved and it’d been _proven_ to him three– two? times now.

Cor was looking at him, but he couldn’t tell what was on his expression because it was _Cor_ , after all, but also because he was drunk and tears were brimming and blurring everything.  He felt a strong hand in his hair, fingertips combing against his scalp neither gentle or rough, and all Prompto wanted in the world was to fling his arms around Cor’s middle and have him rake his hands through his hair until the world finally ended.  Something cracked in his throat, and he thought a sound came out.

Cor’s voice washed over him, “I’ll take him from here, Brayce.  I think he’s had more than enough…”

“It’s because you don’t feed him enough, ya cruel bastard!” But the young hunter dug in Prompto’s hip pocket to pull out the motel room key and handed it to the Marshal.  Meanwhile the remainder of the party came over to say their ‘goodnights’ and wish him a happy birthday again.

The blond wanted to believe he’d done more than stand there and mumble with tears streaming down his face.  He couldn’t be sure, though.

Then he was in the motel room, the badly-wrapped package in his hands and the Marshal’s hand at his back directing him to a chair.

“Sit.  Calm down,” Were the instructions, “It’s all right.  I’m gonna wash up real quick.”

“A-am I s-supposed to op-pen this now?”

“You can open it whenever you want.”

“… Hey.”

The long, dark shape paused, lingering in the threshold between the washroom and the rest of motel room, striking in black against the mottled green of the wallpaper.

Breathing deep, the blond asked, “… Was Brayce trying to…?”

“… Probably.”

“… I’d… probably have gone with it… If you hadn’t shown.”

Prompto felt the weight of Cor’s gaze, but was too cowardly to raise his own to meet the look.

“… I guarantee he won’t ask any questions if you go knock on his door, if that’s what you want.  It wasn’t my intention to pull you out of something you wanted.”

“… I…”

“… From experience, though, you should probably wait until you’re sober again to decide.”

Prompto didn’t move, his fingers crinkling into the newspaper, eyes fixed on the Marshal’s back while he stripped his jacket and washed up in the sink.

_I don’t want Brayce…_

“Hm?”

Blanching, Prompto braced backward in the chair, “… shit…”  He dropped his gaze to the package and began tearing the paper open, needing the excuse to avoid the older man’s attention as he turned around.

There were two items inside.  The first was a 2TB SD memory card.  The other was a powerful wifi transceiver.  After verifying they were precisely what he _thought_ they were, he couldn’t help but gape at the man who was now standing nearby watching him, “Cor… th-these are… You can’t.”

“I already did.”

“No, I mean… this stuff _costs_ … this stuff is like _a car and a half!_ ”

“Two and a half… or three, nowadays.” He shrugged, but there was the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth, “Only the best for the ‘procor’ fans.”

“Fuck!” Prompto swore–unsure why he’d chosen that particular word–lurching to his feet unsteadily enough that Cor grabbed his shoulder to support him.  He didn’t have to worry though, because Promtpo grabbed him too, one hand fisting the collars of his shirts and hooking the other arm around his neck and to drag him down into a kiss.

It was rushed.  Sloppy.  His top lip bumped painfully into the taller man’s teeth, shooting sparks through his vision.  It didn’t matter.  It didn’t matter and it didn’t matter if Cor was about to reject him because he’d already _left_ him and somehow it _hadn_ ’t destroyed Prompto today.

Between that and all the booze, he was _invincible_.

Cor didn’t struggle.  Instead, the blond heard him exhale slowly out his nose, felt the pooling of his breath against his face, then felt him tilt his face and reshape his mouth to fit his better.

For a moment.

It was perfect.

For a moment.

Then he drew back, “Promtpo,” he said softly, “you’re drunk.”

“Don’t stop.  Don’t stop, _please_.  I thought… I thought you were gone… I thought you’d _left_ … Don’t stop… please… I need you… and I’m… I’m sorry…”

“Calm down.  I sent you twenty-eight texts telling you I was meeting you and running late. I left _three_ voicemails.  Where’s your phone?”

Staring up at him, still pressed firmly against the front of his body, forcing the Marshal to stoop, Prompto realized he didn’t know.  He’d had it this morning…

Had he left it in the diner?  In Cindy’s cab?  Somewhere in the deserts of Leide?

“I… _fuck_ … I’m… I’m sorry…”

“Calm down,” Was the reply for a third time, “It’s alright.  I’m not going to leave you– not without good reason, and not without telling you.”

“… W…What would be… a… good reason?” Suddenly he very desperately wanted to know, so he could make absolutely sure he _never_ did such a thing.

“Nothing to do with you, so don’t worry about it.”

“You were gone a day and I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown!  You _can’t_ –of _course_ I’m going to worry about it!”

Sighing, Cor looked Prompto in the eye and stopped his heart, “… Come to bed with me.”

“… What?” They’d just _now_ kissed for the first time, and it had been… well it had _started_ terrible until Cor _fixed_ it… but he apparently didn’t want _more_ of it… but now…

… he wanted to…?

Somehow the Marshal slipped out of his desperate grasp and went to go recline on the bed on his back, where he beckoned, “Come here.”

Suddenly nervous, Prompto went haltingly, his steps unsteady, to the side of the bed.  There, Cor’s hands guided him into the bed, supporting him at the waist and hips enough to prevent him from just collapsing haphazardly on top of him.  The blond ended up lying against his broad chest and squirmed around until his face tucked forcefully under Cor’s jaw and against his throat so he could be inundated with his scent–sweat, leather, amber, and the faint tang of blood and steel–and feel his heartbeat through his own chest.

Was it just his imagination… or was the Immortal’s heart _racing_ a little?

Nah.  No way.  Not with him relaxing under him like this was the most normal and natural thing they could do.  Like they’d done it a hundred-thousand times before.

Like this wasn’t the first time Prompto had the opportunity to taste his skin– like it wasn’t the first time he parted his lips against his neck to do so.

“Prompto.”

“I thought–”

“Go to sleep.” Was the patient, but firm instruction, the deep voice rumbling through his entire body molded against the older man’s own, “You’re drunk, and going to be very embarrassed, and very sick tomorrow.”

“… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“… I thought you weren’t coming back.  I’m sorry.”

“Shh.”

 

It was the first morning after his birthday that he didn’t wake up alone.  Cracking his eyes to the gray light edging through the curtains, he was still engulfed in Cor’s scent, his face still shoved into his neck.  Cor’s chest still rose and fell under him, exuding an almost uncomfortable amount of heat into his own body.  Thick, strong fingers still worked their way lazily in small back and forth motions against his scalp.

Prompto froze, remembering pieces of the night before.  Cor was right: he was _fairly embarrassed_ by most of what he could make sense of.

Clenching his eyes to try and settle the tumble of his guts, he also realized he was working on _very sick_.

But…

… But he was _happy_.  So heart-renewingly _relieved_.  He wasn’t alone.

_He wasn’t alone._

It’d been the _best_ birthday.  Twenty-one was going to be the _best_ year.


	21. Gladiolus/Lunafreya Headcanon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, Cthulhu here from AO3. I just recently found your Scrapbook in the FF XV section and really like it. Could you eventually write a Gladiolus/Lunafreya headcanin? I think those two would be just adorable
> 
> (Ignis/Lunafreya headcanons referenced are [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14315862/chapters/37882625))

(As requested, here are my meme headcanons for ‘Gladya’… er… ‘Lunolus’…? ‘Fleuricitia’?)

Who asks the other on dates:

  * Gladio.  No hesitation.



Who is the bigger cuddler:

  * Gladio!  Literally!  
  * But seriously, when not having to ghost Noctis, I’m pretty sure he’s a snuggler.



Who initiates holding hands more often:

  * Lunafreya likes to brush fingers and give little touches, almost for her own sake than anything.  
  * Gladio has no issues just taking hold of her hand in his big one.



Who remembers anniversaries:

  * Lunafreya is likely better about this.  
  * Gladio may not remember, but he’s a master at improvisation and adaptation, so even if he didn’t remember what day it was, he’ll be sure to make an occasion of it.



Who is more possessive:

  * Definitely Gladio.  
  * He doesn’t mind her doing her royal and divine duties, but he _knows_ when people start giving her ‘that look’ or talking to her in ‘that way’, and he’s definitely going to say something about it.  
    * Right _there_.



Who gets more jealous:

  * Gladio.  See above.  
  * Lunafreya might be quietly broody for a little while when women give Gladio all the attention they do, and he doesn’t quickly shut them down. 
    * She usually moves on to more important things pretty easily.



Who is more protective:

  * Gladio was raised to be Shield of the King his entire life.  
    * That’s an ingrained mindset that isn’t going away anytime soon. 
    *  Lunafreya’s physical protection is likely his biggest concern at all times.
  * Like with Ignis, Lunafreya won’t hear any trash talk about Gladio’s lack of rank
    * He IS a lord’s son, and that should be more than good enough for anybody, anyway.
  * Unlike with Ignis, however, she’s more cautious about his temper because it’s much more overt.
    * He does his best to behave himself.



Who is more likely to cheat:

  * Probably Gladio, unfortunately.
    * Gladiolus is a good and honorable man, but he’s demonstrated that he has few qualms doing what is good for him even if it isn’t good for others.
    * And nobody can deny how he’s a massive flirt.
    * With his relationship with Luna under as much scrutiny as it would be at all times, he might find it just… easier… to find someone on the side.



Who initiates sexy times the most:

  * Gladio.  Hands down.
  * Lunafreya likely doesn’t have the same size appetite, but she’d be happy to find a happy medium.



Who dislikes PDA the most:

  * Lunafreya.  She has an image to uphold as princess and Oracle.
  * Gladio does his best to keep his contact with her as brief and chaste as possible in public, but he just isn’t used to the same scrutiny.
    * Life was just _easier_ as the playboy lordling in Insomnia…



Who kills the spider:

  * Gladio will bravely deal with the spider!  
    * He’s usually pretty good about sparing its life.  
      * Usually.



Who asks the other to marry them:

  * Gladio.  Eventually.



Who buys the other flowers or gifts:

  * They’re actually both really good about this.  
  * Luna likes to get him useful things for his workouts or his ventures outdoors
    * or shirts that actually fit nicely.
  * Gladio showers her with cute things, pretty cards, and flowers.



Who would bring up possibly having kids:

  * If they get married, they would have so many kids… 
    * They both want them really bad…



Who is more nervous to meet the parents:

  * I don’t think this is an issue for them.  
  * Gladio is intimidated by nobody
  * Lunafreya has no reason to be intimidated by Lord or Lady Amicitia, as she already has the backing of the King of Lucis.
    * She might be a _little_ nervous to meet Gladio’s mom, but she really has nothing to worry about.



Who sleeps on the couch when the other is angry:

  * This is a high-visibility, very scrutinized relationship!  
  * There’s no ‘sleeping on the couch’. 
  * But if they’re fighting, Gladio leaves.  
    * He just walks out and comes back after he’s cooled off
      * even if that’s days later.



Who tries to make up first after arguments:

  * Gladio.  
    * He doesn’t like wondering.  
    * He’d rather things be dealt with and talked out.



Who tells the other they love them more often:

  * Lunafreya.  
    * Verbal affirmations are overall just that much more important to her.
  * Physical intimacy is more important to Gladio 
    * (and no, I don’t just mean sex.)



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Note: Overall, I don’t see these two falling together as naturally as Ignis and Luna, but it was fun to think about!)
> 
> Got questions? Want to talk about it? [Here's your mic! ](https://mtraki.tumblr.com/ask)


	22. Bleakest Sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prowlingthunder asked:  
> Fic Prompt: [Arbiter AU] The Arbiter does not wake until the King of Light brings back the dawn.
> 
> (Ugh. UGH this hurts my feelings so much, you don’t even know…)
> 
> (From [this AU. ](https://archiveofourown.org/series/969675))

He rises to no fanfare.  Noone waits for him.  He climbs out of the buried temple into the day, and Nat’ian senses a great change in the air of every breath.

The dead call, and there are _so many_.  How can their be so _impossibly many?!_   But worse still, are the ones he _can’t feel_.  There is an emptiness where they should be.

It is later he learns they were transformed into a tortured form, and then destroyed when ‘the Prophecy’ came to be.  This ‘Prophecy of the King of Light’, which is not the prophecy he was raised on– the Prophecy of the Eternal Kingdom of the Sun.  The dead were sacrificed, not for the _living_ , but thoughtlessly.

He can _taste_ Bahamut’s self-satisfied smugness.


	23. Cor Week 2018 Day 2: “Eyes | Cor traveling with Regis, Weskham, and Clarus (and Cid)”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was my submission for Day 2 of Cor Week 2018

Laughing at Regis’s comment as the Crowned Prince ducked into the tent, presumably for the night, Clarus glanced over toward the one person who was not laughing.  The youth’s expression remained trained, and his steely blue gaze was distant, looking beyond their camp.  Knowing that he’d heard them, and knowing equally well the young soldier wasn’t looking at anything in particular in the dark– his body language was all wrong, a total lack of anticipatory tension– Clarus wondered what he was thinking.

It both irritated and amused him often he found himself wondering what Cor was thinking.

He’d been selected for this detail by Clarus’s father, Valentulus Amicitia, current Captain of the Crownsguard and Shield of the King– roles Clarus would inherit once Regis succeeded his father on the throne– likely by request of Regis himself, despite Clarus’s sense of foreboding and mild chagrin.

It wasn’t that he disliked the youth, it was that he couldn’t read him, much less understand him.  He shifted between hot and cold so quickly, the young lord never knew quite how to approach him, which was a serious issue in Clarus’s book, when he got along so well with so many other people.

Feeling the weight of his gaze, Cor’s attention shifted from beyond the edge of the camp to the Crowned Prince’s Shield– a slight turn of the head and eyes, a tilting of the chin to address the much bigger man, but otherwise unmoving, and Clarus didn’t know if that was from the military discipline that had been ground into his bones over the last year or the tense stillness before an explosion, “…My lord?”

“You don’t have to– you shouldn’t call me that out here,” Clarus sighed.  Cor didn’t respond, and his eyes remained fixed on Clarus’s face.  He could see the young soldier turning over his thoughts, but his expression gave no indication of what they were, and so the only result was that Clarus remained convinced that Cor’s deceptive self-composure was too cynical for someone his age.

His age being fourteen.

And it was deceptive, not only because Clarus couldn’t perceive his thoughts under it, but because there was an element of disingenuousness to it.  Cor Leonis was no more stoic than any other fourteen year old.  Clarus had received too many reports of fist-fights in the barracks and latrines to believe that.  He’d heard it in the tense, excessively guarded answers to piercing questions concerning his activities during barracks holiday when he disappeared and returned covered in various bruises wearing that same impassive expression.

There’d been an inquiry, of course, just like with any other trainee.  Crownsguard leadership knew already that he’d come from a broken home in the poor districts of the city and also that he’d spent an undocumented amount of time beyond the city and even the Wall.  Cor had come in to the training program already knowing how to fight and kill, though his technique was rough and vicious and full of too many openings.  They’d taught him different, and he’d excelled– now his technique was all the more unrepentantly vicious– in his physical training so as to gain recognition at almost every level– despite his short, slim stature and younger age.  His academic scores were abysmal, and his open disdain for them, along with his barely concealed defiance that reared its ugly head at times earned him the ire of his instructors who despaired at ever turning him into a good soldier.  They blamed his upbringing, and his age.  Thirteen was the youngest an applicant could be, but it still raised eyebrows.  The Council had more modern sensibilities now, despite how the war still blazed on, and enlisting children to fight was not as easily overlooked.  Valentulus had pushed the package through, however, and Clarus strongly suspected King Mors had had something to do with it with how his father had grumbled and scowled about it.  Clarus wondered what the King knew, or what his father knew, that had made it so important to put this poor kid with all his jagged edges into the Crownsguard.

“… I don’t understand, sir.” The youth said stiffly, “What should I call you, then?”

“My name is fine.  You can call me Clarus, and him Weskham, and him Cid–”

There was something sharp, maybe even clever or calculating– a challenge?– in those icy eyes, “–And his Highness?”

“I’ll let you settle that with him,” The Shield smiled patiently.

“Yes s–… Clarus.” A pause, then, “… Was there something you wanted?”

“His Highness is going to pout awhile,” Clarus grinned ruefully, “Did you want to play cards with us?”

The icy blue eyes watched him carefully as the thought it over.  Then, tentatively, as if expecting a trap, Cor said, “… I guess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got questions? Want to talk about it? [Here's your mic! ](https://mtraki.tumblr.com/ask)


	24. Cor Week 2018 Day 3: “Training Crownsguard”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was my Day 3 Submission for Cor Week 2018.
> 
> This story takes places in the ["Cathedral of You"](https://archiveofourown.org/series/955296) universe.

“Thirty seconds to contact.”  Orvo heard his instructor, Migo, murmur to their brother-flight instructor, Kabrus, from his vantage in the two-row formation where they’d been waiting for approximately four minutes already.  Anticipation was eating up his belly (though it could also be a desire for lunch) and he knew the same was true of instructors and trainees alike.  It didn’t matter that this had already happened before, it still didn’t fail to boil through their adrenaline.

And this time, there was an additional reason to keep sharp.

The gymnasium door latch made a loud clang before swinging open, followed by the long booted strides of the Crownsguard Marshal, Cor Leonis, himself.

“Why aren’t these cadets training?” He demanded quietly, eyes taking in the two lines of dingy white fatigues and tense faces schooling themselves from excitement into attention.

“We thought it’d be easier for them to be ready for you, Marshal.” Kabrus shrugged lazily, attempting to cover for the tic in his jaw that indicated his increased anxiety.

“It’s not their concern to be ‘ready’ for me.  It’s not _me_ they have to worry about.”  Then he paused, both in stride and in thought, hands folding under his arms as they crossed, “… _Yet_ , anyway.”

Both instructors gave each other wry looks, as if sharing a private joke, “Well, they’re ready for you anyhow, sir.”

“We’ll see.”

Two words and Orvo’s pulse was racing.  There was something so exciting about training directly under the Marshal.  He was an exacting instructor, uncompromising in his standards–much like the instructors he in turn entrusted with their full-time training– but knowing he was the Crownsguard Marshal, the Immortal, in the flesh, divulging his tactics and experience filled him with a measure of pride rarely experienced elsewhere.

What must it be like to live with such legendary excellence?  The trainee risked the glance down the row toward the small, slim female with dark eyes– the newest recruit in the flights.  Trammel.  A bunch of weird rumors had come out about her, most of them casting her in a bad light, but then it also came out that she was living with, sleeping with, or somehow otherwise scandalously connected to the Marshal, and that was why she’d made it through entry into training.  Everybody had more or less written her off, after that, relegating her to derision and rumor-mongering.  Marshal’s Pet.

Training under the Marshal was always one of the most exciting times of the year.  This time, though, Orvo knew that just like him, everybody was that much more keen on figuring out whether or not the rumors were true.  He could see Trammel blushing under everyone’s furtive scrutiny.  Or was it something else?

“We’ll be doing a point-defense exercise in close quarters against multiple assailants.” The Marshal spoke again, his voice projected to reach every corner of the room without raising it and tearing Orvo’s attention off his fellow trainee, “Someone not on my payroll tell me why this is important.”

Orvo’s hand shot into the air, as did several others’, including Trammel’s.

“Ericks.”

“Sir!” Orvo’s blond friend replied instantly as everyone’s hand fell, “Point-defense is the primary strategy of maintaining control of an indoor environment.  Close quarters fighting mitigates the danger of harming allies, civilians, or damaging valuable Lucian assets in confined spaces, and most attacks will probably not be conducted one-on-one.”

The Marshal’s arms remained folded, eyes fixed on the trainee as he spoke, “Right.  Let’s go upstairs.”

“Sir?” Ericks queried uneasily.

“Upstairs?  Marshal?”  Orvo had never heard his instructor sound so confused and uncertain before, “… Are we cleared for that?”

It was a dumb question and everyone knew it the moment he spoke it.  Cor was the Marshal of the Crownsguard, the head of Citadel security, second only to Lord Amicitia, Shield of the King, himself.  Who was going to stop him if he wanted to teach his lessons upstairs in the tangling corridors and office spaces?

“Fall out,” Cor said instead of answering, “Elevator to your left, floor 83.”

The trainees dispersed in the orderly fashion that had been ingrained into them for the last several months.  Orvo lingered, however, letting his murmuring peers flow around him like a great boulder in a rushing stream.  He was a big guy already, and was only getting bigger, and could easily see over most everyone’s head.  Trammel lingered as well.  Cor ignored her, walking past her without a glance and crossed to Migo, where he momentarily placed a hand on his shoulder.

“I thought you were ready for me,” He said wryly.

“My mistake, Marshal,” The instructor sighed, “I’ll remember for the future that you get off on barely-organized chaos.”

“Train for the fight, not the exam.”

“I know, I know.”

* * *

The corner of Floor 83 where all thirty-two of them gathered featured a small break room, a store room, and the emergency stairwell.  The Marshal organized the scenario for each trainee to defend access to the stairwell in close quarters from multiple attackers coming from either down the hall or the break room (which they did not see the set up of, as they were sent downstairs and called back up).  The attackers included a random number of students and the two instructors, and an assortment of training weapons, so that the defender could not prepare for any particular arrangement, even after watching previous trainees attempt the exercise.  The goal was to control the space after engagement for seven minutes, as that was the absolute soonest another Crownsguard could be _guaranteed_ to offer support, or otherwise nullify the threat of the assailants– such as apprehending or ‘killing’ them.  The usual safety ground rules were in place– well the Marshal’s usual safety ground rules– so no blows to the head, neck, or spine, but otherwise strikes would not be pulled, as their training weapons were specifically designed to protect against lasting physical damage while at the same time dishing out all the punishment for failing to protect oneself.  Stairs fighting was strictly prohibited– as that was another lesson and exercise altogether– and the windows were to be avoided like they were made of the most precious material on the Star, and one touch would shatter them.

The trainees drew lots for turn order.  Orvo was nineteenth.

Paetro, in that smarmy, ass-kissing way he always had with the instructors, said, “Marshal, sir, will you be demonstrating first?”

Admittedly, every trainee gathered probably wanted to see Cor the Immortal in action, but none of them had the self-satisfied, over-inflated sense of importance to ask.

Blinking, the Marshal gave the curly-haired young man a long, long look, “You want a demonstration?”

“I think we’d all like to see how it’s done, sir.” Paetro insisted with an insufferable smile.

“Alright,” Cor said, “I’ll go downstairs and come back up.  I want you and your most trusted friends to try and take this position from me.”

“M-m-me?”

“You wanted a demonstration.  You’ll have the best seat in the house.”  With that, the Marshal turned and headed down the stairs.  There wasn’t room for argument, no matter how sickly pale green the trainee’s face turned.

“Pick his pet,” Someone muttered just loud enough to be heard in the corridor, “He’s not gonna hit her… But I wouldn’t mind if he does…”

“He won’t.”

They were wrong.  Paetro selected two of his most competent flunkees and also Trammel, whom he treated with contempt perhaps more than any other trainee.  The Marshal returned up the stairs, and after a rather harsh, “Well?” the four trainees moved forward.  Pulling a worn, old training weapon from the aether in a flash of magic, the Marshal proceeded to smash them into the walls and floor.  Each individual engagement was punctuated by a sharp instruction on how to improve their attack technique.

“Swinging wildly opens you _here_.”

“Watch your opponents trunk, not their hands.”

“Do not hesitate!”

“You’re off-balance.  _Always_ know where you feet are.”

He did not spare the young woman he was supposedly favoring.  In fact, if Orvo had to be honest, he was probably the _least_ considerate of her of the four.

After seven minutes, Cor called for a stand down, and the aggressor trainees pulled themselves slowly off the floor, nursing sizeable bruises (though Orvo was sure the Marshal did pull his strikes a great deal, despite his rules for the exercise) and returned to the line.  Cor looked completely unflustered and dismissed the training sword and folded his hands in front of him.

“Now you have an idea of the goal.  Let’s get started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got questions? Want to talk about it? [Here's your mic! ](https://mtraki.tumblr.com/ask)


	25. Cor Week 2018 Day 4: “Dad! Cor | Cor’s childhood and upbringing”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was my submission for Day 4 of Cor Week 2018.
> 
> THERE ARE MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD FOR THE ["Cathedral of You"](https://archiveofourown.org/series/955296) universe. However, the events of this story don't actually belong in "Cathedral of You".

It was fairly well known throughout all his various social and professional circles that Cor Leonis was an infamously, paranoidly light sleeper.  Somewhat less known was how, immediately following every waking, were a brief handful of breathless moments where his spatial and temporal awareness re-calibrated itself. Disturbances were swiftly vetted as either benign or threats to be dealt with.  Countless battlefields, court intrigues, terrorist threats, assassination attempts, and the things that moved in the shadows in the seedier alleys of Insomnia had been more than education enough to sleep lightly, with one eye open, and react with alert urgency when woken.

But nothing woke him like the sound of his son crying.

Nothing else in the world sounded just like that, or struck him in quite the same way, and so his reaction to it was also incredibly unique: there were no questions concerning where he was or what most needed doing.  The answer was straightforward: he must go to him.  Immediately.  So he roused quickly and was moving to leave the bed, even as he felt his wife beside him stir– whether at the sound or at his abrupt movements stripping his form and heat from her, he couldn’t say.  Taking the moment, he hesitated and leaned over to kiss her bare shoulder.

“I got him.”

“He might be hungry…”

“Maybe.  If he is, we’ll go to the kitchen,” He assured her, before remembering “Unless…?”  
“No.  I’m ok…” Was her mumbled reply, subconsciously dropping her gaze to where her swollen breasts threatened to spill out of her camisole, “… But he might want to nurse.”

“You need your rest,” She spent all day chasing after their thirteen month old, and was almost four months into carrying their second, fully invested in her ‘nesting phase’.  It was enough to drain even her seemingly endless reserves of energy, “We’ll figure it out.”

“Mhm…” She weakly conceded as he brushed his lips across her temple and left the bed.

Padding quietly through the kitchen and into the nursery, Cor didn’t bother with lights, able to see perfectly well.  The boy was upright in his crib, forehead pressed against the bars with both tiny hand gripping them, mid-inhale for another heart-wrenching wail.

“Acer,” Cor greeted evenly from the doorway.  It’d been important to his wife that his first-born son be named in the Insomnia fashion instead of the Accordaen one.  He still didn’t really know why, or how she’d suspected it might mean something to him.  Or why it did, in fact, mean something to him.

Like the way the head tilted back up to look at him, eyes wide and chubby cheeks flushed in the dim light from the small, warm lamp left on in the corner.  Or the way that tiny voice implored in a burbling, heart-wrenching tone, “Daddy!”

How those tiny hands reached for him as he sobbed all the more despairingly urgent.

Not hungry, then.  Lonely, or frightened.

Scooping the toddler up effortlessly, Cor propped him against his chest, allowing him to wedge his head under his jaw and against his shoulder.  One little hand curled around the strap of his tank top with the other arm reached as far around his neck as it could, tiny, razor-sharp nails digging into his skin, while at the same time Cor slipped a finger into the seam of his diaper to check for wetness.

Dry.  For the immediate moment.

“It’s alright,” He murmured quietly into the soft, dark hair, “I’m here.”

It had been his litany for the last thirteen months, at least once a day.  It’s alright.  I’m here.

The words had weight and meaning, and he hoped that was true for Acer as well.  He hoped they were a comfort, even when he spent so many long hours away.

The King still needed his Crownsguard,and more specifically its Marshal, perhaps now more than ever.  Likewise, the Crownsguard needed all hands– including Acer’s mother’s expert hands, before she went back on maternity leave– and Cor felt all the bitterness of the sacrifice his children would make to the Crown.

But it was better than it could be.  They would be healthy, safe, provided for, and loved.  That was better than many were offered.

More than he’d been raised with.

As his wife knew, Cor’s darkest fear while they’d waited for Acer to finish growing in her body, was that he might turn out to be a father anything like his had been.

It would have been easy to blame the drink, but the drink was a symptom– an outlet for Seta Leonis.  Like beating his wife and child had been.  Maybe it was the crushing strain of hopeless, economic and social desolation.  Or maybe that had been a symptom as well.

Or maybe it was in the blood, blood that Cor had inherited, like his last name.

Like the temper he worked dutifully to school into more positive use, so that there were few enough alive today who still remembered that Cor Leonis had had a harsh temper and sharp tongue in his youth.  No, most thought he felt too little, and emoted not at all.

No.

He felt too much, really, and showed none of it out of self-preservation and a life-time of practice.

Like his mother.  Before she’d left, unable to deal with the torment and abuse any longer, and unwilling to accept the handicap of taking her son when the last attempt had cost her a broken jaw, a broken wrist, and missing teeth…

Acer’s sobbing dwindled to a quiet whining murmur, his fist around Cor’s tank top strap adjusting enough to spare his thumb to slip into his mouth.

“It’s alright,” Cor whispered, “I’m here.”

Even at Acer’s most temperamental and over-excited, Cor could not comprehend the idea of raising his hands, forged in war and steeped in blood as they were, against the little boy in his arms.  Had his father felt the same when he was this small?  He had no way of knowing.

What if…

 _No_.

He was far and removed the man his father had been.  Regis had forged him into something different, altogether.  Besides, there was his wife, who was nothing at all like the woman his mother had been.  She was more than capable of caring for and protecting her family.  Including him, if necessary.  Even from him.

Still.  These quiet, dark hours could prey on a man’s deepest fears.

But the boy in his arms was warm, breathing heavy, a familiar and comforting weight.  A talisman of the future to ward against the bitter past.

“It’s alright.  I’m here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got questions? Want to talk about it? [Here's your mic! ](https://mtraki.tumblr.com/ask)


	26. Cor Week 2018 Day 5: “Light in the darkness”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was my submission for Day 5 of Cor Week 2018.
> 
> This fic is based on ["Lions Before Dawn" ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13868949)

Few dared to travel the long dark alone.  There were too many dangers– daemons eager to leap from every bush, tree, shadow, corner, and even the ground and air itself.  Kingsglaive and Hunters went out in teams of no less than four, and civilians were strongly advised to travel in groups under the protection of such teams.

Cor was one of the few.

He trusted in his skill and years of experience to keep himself safe for his short jaunts between outposts.  Always better to check on the conditions of things himself, really.  People would fib over the radio so he would worry.  People still had their pride at the end of the world, it seemed.

Still, pride could get people killed, and so many were dead already.  Therefore, he went to check himself, in person, so they couldn’t fib.  And everyone else went out in teams.

Not that he always exclusively traveled alone.  On his way to and fro through the harsh out-lands between dots of civilization around the power stations, he’d stop by havens where teams of Kingsglaive would make camp for their missions.  He’d join them for a meal, and rest, and if they were going his way, he’d tag along.

One such camp– though decidedly smaller– was established on one such haven.  Pausing to give it some consideration, the Marshal realized he could only see one person, sitting hunched on the hard stone at the very edge of the softly glowing runes.  Nothing else in the camp stirred.  Concerned and curious, he approached, eyes scanning the camp and surrounding area, but ears, as always, pricked for the tell-tale hiss and roar of vacuum as a daemon ripped itself from the weave of darkness to take form.

Once his booted feet found the stone of the haven, the figure–long dark hair pulled in a tail at the back of the head, was all he was able to recognise at first– turned, alert, but unafraid.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” He admonished, recognizing her as one of his Kingsglaive, the young, energetic, warm-hearted, ‘Galahdian’ woman, he’d had the opportunity to get to know during his many stays in Lestallum.  Her name was Ariel, and she was about as Galahdian as he was (less, probably) first evidenced by her very Altissian accent and mannerisms, and second by her complete lack of combat experience before arriving in the city– as he’d been informed after remarking to another Kingsglaive her decided talent with a lance.  Her talents weren’t restricted to combat, either– though that seemed to be the focus of her efforts– and he’d learned she had skill in medicine, and did not shy away from the more mundane needs of the refugees.  He knew first-hand that she was an excellent cook.  More importantly, she had an excellent heart, so warm and open to literally anybody who needed a bit of cheering or support.  Even, at times, him.

Like now, standing there, waiting for her to tell him that another team of Kingsglaive had been bested by their monstrous enemies and lost to the darkness, and that was why she sat here alone, silent and introspective enough for him to get this close without alerting her.  But instead she grinned, the expression lighting up her face, her entire being, radiating vivacious life and energy into the night.

“Good thing you came, then, Marshal!”

It slammed into his chest, swelled against his ribs, driving out the cold and the dark and the ever-lingering dread.

 _Six._ He cursed to himself, noting far too well how the cool blue light of the haven shined against the smooth skin of her throat and face, and gleamed in her warm, dark eyes.

He’d liked her– _appreciated_ her– the moment he’d met her, but now?

… Now there was something deeper and richer to his consideration.

Something perhaps not altogether appropriate for a woman some twenty years his junior, as well as his subordinate in the Kingsglaive.  Besides, it might be wrong of him to want her for himself.

Her, the spiritual light in the dark, nestled in this physical one.  She shined and burned for many, so many…  Clearing his throat, Cor shifted his weight uneasily, feeling the heat in his throat.

As ever, he found shelter in the practical, and immediate, “What are you doing here?”

“Come see,” She beckoned, still smiling, something excited and mysterious in her eyes.

He went, moving to sit beside her on the stone.  Her hand found his shoulder, apparently immune to or unaware of his sudden revelation and the shamefacedness it brought, guiding him to lean just _so_ toward her, to see what she was looking at.

“Look,” she whispered, delving further into breathless excitement and mystery, unabashedly childlike, “The Disc.  Do you see?  The flames _dance_.”

He did see.

He _did_ see.  Long since he’d known that the Disc burned– and burned even _still_ when the sun no longer seemed to– but never had he considered that it danced.

Mostly because dancing, as he’d understood it, was a formal and structured function of court, and little else.  But her…

… Her in all her warmth and light had the unhesitating courage to lead the joyful, wild, victorious dance in the street when the old man from Tenebrae had pulled out his broken fiddle with only two strings left that first night after they’d been able to send power beyond the walls of their city.

“… Dance is important to you.” He remarked quietly, taking his eyes off the distant flames to admire the expression seeing and sharing them with him gave her.

“Yes, but,” she shrugged lightly, then glanced at him watching her and grinned again, “isn’t it beautiful?”

“Yes.”

So warm.  So _bright_.

_Six…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got questions? Want to talk about it? [Here's your mic! ](https://mtraki.tumblr.com/ask)


	27. Cor Week 2018 Day 6: “I was a fool”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was my submission for Day 6 of Cor Week 2018.

“I was a fool,” Cor despaired quietly, “to let you talk me into staying late for this.”

“Something about misery and company…” Clarus returned thoughtfully, removing his reading glasses and rubbing gently under both eyes.

Cor snorted, cracking all the knuckles in both hands with a flex of his fists before rotating his shoulders, and pushing away from the long meeting table, “I thought that was why he had you.”

“Yes, I’m here for him.  You were here for me.”

“Such whinging,” Regis scolded with a good-natured smile, “I’d not expected from men so upstanding.”

“I don’t mind being less upstanding if it gets me out of another ninety minutes of that.” Cor replied wryly.

Scoffing, the king adjusted himself in his seat at the head of the table and reached for his cane, “I shall be sure to relay your appreciation for the good duke’s concerns.  Perhaps he will see fit to send them to your secretary in the future.”

“My secretary will file them correctly.” Cor said quietly, with a shrug, already placing a hand at his old friend’s elbow.

Clarus gathered the paperwork and shot the younger man a look, “You’d best hope you mean me and not the esteemable Ms Fettro.  You do not wish to incite her ire, Marshal.”

“I’m aware,” Cor drolled, “I certainly meant you.”

“You always did seem to enjoy inciting his ire,” Was the king’s observation.

“Old habits.”

Lord Amicitia opened his mouth to respond, but then his phone alerted him and he read the several scrolling screens of texts before sighing expansively, “… It would seem the ‘good duke’ has made me overly late for dinner.”

“Felicity not leaving you a plate?” Regis queried, almost sounding truly concerned, “I do hope I’ve not–”

“–No, she’s definitely a little angry at you, about it.  Me too.” Clarus sighed.

“Oh.”

Seeing the hang-dog expressions on the older men, Cor sighed, “… Come on.  I’ll feed you sorry old bastards.”  
“I’m really not enticed at the prospect of eating anything you cook, old friend…” The Shield of the King hesitated, grimacing.

“… No, Clarus, I understand Miss–”

“– She’s working tonight,” Cor interrupted, texting, “… He’s outside.  Meet me on the first floor in half an hour– neither of you are too stately for open-air stir-fry, right?”

* * *

Admittedly, Cor wasn’t sure what to expect when he brought together his old friends from the Citadel, and his somewhat newer friend from the streets.  Denji was polite and respectful, and above all, a most excellent listener, but some of the things he said made clear to the Marshal that he had some strong views concerning the social and civil constructs within the city.

So asking the man to work late just so he could bring the King of Lucis and his Shield to a very late night dinner was a risk.

“Kept the oil hot for you, Leo,” Was the greeting from beyond the open side-panel of the truck where the spicy scents of soy sauce and _sambali_ rolled out with the steam, “but you know I only serve fresh.  I hope you don’t mind the wait.”

“The wait is always worth it, Denji.” Cor replied, gesturing for Clarus and Regis to sit at the prop-down table with the five stools while they gave him mystified stares. “We’ve waited all night for worse, anyway.”

In the half hour, both noblemen had changed into something less openly revealing their positions– dark suits without ties, so that they might almost be senior members of the Crownsguard in the dark, if nobody paid too close attention in the warm light from the hanging lamps on the side of the truck.

“‘Leo’?” Regis smirked.  It was an effort for the Marshal to keep from grinding his teeth.

“My girl’s name for him.  She likes giving my regulars pet names.” The chef replied, “I’m Denji, like he said.”

“Clarus.”

“Regis.  A pleasure.”

Cor felt it was only fair he bear the full brunt of the long look Denji gave him as he reached for his chef’s knife to start chopping the pork.

“Happy to be of service.” He said with what seemed to be a genuine smile.

Exhaling, Cor realized this might not have been a terrible mistake after all…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got questions? Want to talk about it? [Here's your mic! ](https://mtraki.tumblr.com/ask)


	28. Cor Week 2018 Day 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was my submission for Day 8 of Cor Week 2018, which was a 'free' day.
> 
> prowlingthunder asked:  
> Fic Prompt: [Canon Divergence] Gilgamesh emerges from the cave, dragging Young Cor by his collar, deciding this is his new apprentice. (What leaving the cave does to Gil is up to you, but now Cor has Papa!Gilgamesh to shake him.)

“Why didn’t you just fucking _kill me?!_ ”

It was a foolish question and a foolish waste of his strength.  But Cor was feeling particularly foolish, drunk on sharp pain and a deluge of shame.  All his limbs were still trembling with the after-wash of adrenaline, which only intensified his pain and shame.  As he lay there on the floor of the cavern in the eldritch half-light, he thought he wouldn’t get an answer.

But then, “…To do so would be a waste of potential.  In two thousand years, noone has afflicted me with a wound so grievous. You are not worthy of my power and my title… but you have the potential to be more than you are.”

“Then _why_ won’t you _let me go?!_ ” Except Cor wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to be let go instead of slain.  At least if he were slain, he wouldn’t have to listen to all the insufferably smug ‘I told you so’s from his peers and betters.

If he even made it all the way back to Insomnia without bleeding out, first.  Looking at his outstretched right arm, but unable to move it, he wondered if he’d have to amputate it to survive– like he’d amputated the colossal being called the Blademaster’s left.  It wasn’t a fair trade.  This was his dominant hand, his _sword arm_ , even though the Genji Blade required both– _especially_ with his small stature– and try as he might, he’d never managed to get the same speed and finesse on his non-dominant side.

Would they even _let_ him fight again?

Would he still have a job after disobeying every order and warning and charging out here alone?

Or would he just be cast back into the gutter like so much refuse?

No.  Better to die here in ignoble failure like all the others.

The Blademaster rumbled, and Cor had the distinct feeling he was being _laughed_ at, “… To do so would be a waste of potential.  Destruction looms upon the star, but your people– this generation– are _soft_ and _spoiled_ by the light of the Crystal.  Should I release you, it may take _another_ two-thousand years before someone is made worthy– _if at all_.”

Teeth bared, Cor commanded obedience of his trembling limbs and twisted around to face the armored giant who _still_ had the nerve to be holding his Genji blade, “So you’re just gonna _keep me here?!_ ”

“You will remain here, but not as a creature _kept_.  I will not _pamper_ you as your kingdom has done–”

“ _Fuck you!_ ” Rage gave him strength, and he found himself on his knees, ruined right arm in front of him, facing his adversary, “You don’t know a _fucking thing_ about–”

“–I know everything _worth_ knowing about you, Cor Leonis.” The giant replied in an unruffled tone, though his voice carried through the caverns like thunder and the youth heard the ghosts whisper and shiver all around, “You lack the strength to take from me my power, but of your conviction– the sharpened steel of your _mettle_ – I am admittedly impressed.  You think yourself well-forged in poverty and suffering, but I have proven you _weak_ and _wrongly tempered_.  Suffering alone does not beget strength, and a Shield without strength protects noone and nothing.  Your conviction only sees you half-made, boy.  You will never be more if you return.”

“ _Fuck you!_ ” All fifteen years of his life he’d been told just what he wasn’t good enough for, and for fifteen years he’d been doing all he could to _prove them wrong_.  He didn’t ask for a chance, he didn’t ask for help, he just _did what needed doing_ again and again.   _Nobody_ wanted it _more_.   _Nobody_ performed _better_.   _Nobody_ would _outwork_ him.

He’d get it because he _earned it_ with blood and sweat.  He paid the price _up front_.

So why?   _Why_ was there always this insurmountable wall beyond the one he bled himself dry breaking through?

“You will never be more if you return.” Gilgamesh repeated patiently, as remote and unassailable as the mountains.

“Just fucking _kill me_ then!–” Then Cor coughed, choking on blood, wracked with pain, and the words hammered through the veil of rage.

“… Wait… _If_ I return?”

The Blademaster made that infuriating rumbling sound again, “… Fortunately, you are teachable.”

Cor didn’t remember much after that.  He was fairly certain he’d blacked out.  When he roused again, his wounds had been bandaged and his arm set and bound, slung tightly to his chest with his jacket.  He woke alone and desperate for something to eat and drink.

There was nothing in the caverns.  Not even rodents or insects.

“I can’t _stay_ here.” He grumbled at the stones, “I’ll fucking _starve_ to death.  I thought you wanted me _more_ , not _less_.”

“One would suspect,” Came the oddly human voice behind him, “that one so used to _want_ as you would know better how to provide for oneself.”

It was a figure in a long black robe, standing six foot tall with loose pale hair falling free of the pulled up hood.  Peering into the depths, he was met with those same unblinking eyes that razored through his very depths.  Shivering, he stepped back.

“You change shape now?”

“I will accompany you beyond the Tempering Grounds, for a short time.” The Blademaster said instead, “and ensure your return.”

“You think I’m going to run away?”  
“I am certain you will _try_.” Gilgamesh replied, unamused, “Come.  I will open the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got questions? Want to talk about it? [Here's your mic! ](https://mtraki.tumblr.com/ask)

**Author's Note:**

> Got questions? Want to talk about it? [Here's your mic! ](https://mtraki.tumblr.com/ask)


End file.
